


The Raven King

by Shadowmire



Series: Veil of Memory [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Cadfael Chronicles - Ellis Peters, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Evil Bran Stark, F/M, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-01-15 22:07:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 48,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21260399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowmire/pseuds/Shadowmire
Summary: Sequel to The Witch of the ValeThree years after the destruction of King’s landing, while visiting the Vale discovered Jaime didn't die in King's Landing. Now they have to flee to the north before the Raven King can plan his revenge.Note to Cadfael fans: Brother Cadfael and Hugh Beringar are only in the first three chapters. This is the world of GoT.





	1. The Holy Brother

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Sea_Spirit for beta'ing this fic and find all my typos.

Chapter One  
The Holy Brother

The verdant hues of the forest canopy intertwined gently, weaving a tapestry of light and shadow across the forest floor. The dense woodlands and ravines of the Vale foothills hid the travelers from human eyes. However, the thick forest couldn’t hide them from hungry, ethereal eyes. 

After a shrill caw alerted the unintentional rebels to the feathered spy, Arik threw a stone at the crow, which had been watching them with inquisitive eyes from the branches of an ancient oak tree. The large black bird squawked angrily before taking to the air, disappearing into the thick forest canopy. 

It hadn’t taken long for Brienne to notice something was seriously wrong. Jaime was quiet. Too quiet. At first, after they had fled from Jaime’s farm in the Vale, he had talked so much Brienne almost felt like she was drowning in a verbal sea. Had he been insulting her appearance or lack of personality, Brienne might have believed they had somehow traveled back in time to their first journey together across the Riverlands. Jaime especially wouldn’t stop grousing about how much he hated the fucking North. 

Then, a few days into their journey, Jaime had withdrawn, refusing to talk or eat, and he barely slept. His mood was reminiscent of how he had retreated within himself after he had lost his right hand. No amount of consoling or sympathetic words could draw him out of the shell of misery he had constructed around himself. Jaime had grown progressively worse, trembling violently as tremors racked his body and his once golden skin grew grey, cold and clammy. If Jaime spoke at all, it was only to incoherently mumble in a distant whimper Brienne could barely understand.

“He’s getting worse,” Brienne whispered, kneeling down and gently wiping the cold sweat from Jaime’s brow as he lay collapsed against the trunk of a large tree. Jaime’s golden hair was matted and disheveled; his eyes had grown hollow and glassed over.

Kaylan curled up next to the man he still believed was his father—no one wanted to tell the child otherwise. Less than a week ago, Kaylan and Arik had seen their mother murdered by armed raiders; losing his father now would be devastating for the eight-year-old.

“Papa, please eat,” Kaylan cried as he held an apple slice up to Jaime’s lips. 

Jaime didn’t see his son. He could only stare into nothingness and curse into the abyss. His head fell backwards against the tree, and he began to moan once more about shadows and whispers.

Brienne sighed with the realization that they had few options as Jaime continued to slip further away from them. She glanced worriedly at Tyrion, who stood nearby. “We need to find help.”

Tyrion drew his lips together as he looked down at Brienne and his brother. “Who would we possibly ask? We are fugitives, hunted by the king and, by extension, the entire realm.” 

Brienne fretted as a shiver ran down her spine; she knew it was a risk. Looking west as the sun set behind the Mountains of the Moon, she wondered aloud, “Where are we exactly? Is there a settlement nearby?”

“Still in the Vale. I think there’s a little village east of here,” Podrick answered, looking east toward the rising sun. “Shrewsbury.”

“Shrewsbury,” Brienne repeated quietly, searching her memory. _Where have I heard that before?_

-o0o-

The small cottage was a collage of knotted timbers and weathered wooden planks, which embellished the rough-hewn walls with soft hues of brown and grey. The furnishings scattered around the cottage’s single room—cot, workbench, bookcase and several large cupboards— much the same as the walls, were cobbled together from scraps of salvaged wooden planks. The surface of the large workbench, which dominated the room, was pitted and scarred like the face of an old sellsword.

A foul-smelling concoction bubbled on the hearth, and it hissed and spat like an angry serpent ready to bite. Drying herbs hung from the rafters and earthen jars and vials of pungent healing potions filled every available space of the workshop. Books and loosely rolled parchments were stacked on a small bookcase wedged into a corner. 

With so much clutter, one might expect the cottage to be disorganized and covered in dust and grime. Nothing could be farther from the truth: each vial and ingredient had a specific place. Every surface was scrubbed clean daily by Brother Cadfael’s long-suffering assistant. 

The holy brother pushed aside his mortar and pestle and capped the small green vial with a wooden stopper. He placed the carefully labeled medicine on a cluttered shelf before dipping his hands in a bowl of warm water, carefully washing away the residue of the potion’s ingredients before drying his hands on his long brown and black robe.

Stretching his stiff arms, Cadfael exhaled a weighty groan. He had seen over seventy namedays; age and time had caught up with him, causing the old monk’s muscles to cramp and twitch when he remained seated for too long. 

The door rattled, startling the holy brother. Cadfael glanced at the candles burning low on his workbench; it was well passed the hour of the bat. His eyebrows furrowed as he considered who might possibly need his attention this late in the evening. 

After opening the door, Cadfael was confronted by three unusual strangers: a remarkably tall woman, a dwarf and their companion, a man who might have been handsome if he wasn’t pale, hunched over and moaning hoarsely. The man’s golden hair hung in loose snarls. and his head plummeted down to his chest. It was only with the help of the tall woman that he was able to remain standing. 

“Quickly!” Cadfael said as he ushered the strangers inside. 

-o0o-

Brienne had hoped to make it to the North unnoticed. However, since Jaime had fallen sick with some mysterious sickness, which she suspected was a supernatural illness, they had few choices. She still couldn’t understand why she’d had a problem remembering where she had heard of the village of Shrewsbury. Had the king’s shadow creature affected her memory? It was just recently, on their first journey into the mountains in search of the Witch of the Vale that Ser Hugh Beringar had told her of the village and the unusual holy brother, a Sparrow who cared for the sick and injured of Shrewsbury. Hugh said the monk cared little for the politics of the realm and, more importantly, he was discreet.

They left Arik and Kaylan in the care of Ser Podrick Payne, hidden in a small ravine deep in the primeval forest a day’s travel from the village. No sense risking all of their lives if they were discovered in the village. The young knight had strict orders: if they hadn’t returned in a few days’ time, he would ride north with Jaime’s sons and beg Queen Sansa for sanctuary.

Brienne lay Jaime gently down on the straw-filled mattress of an old slat-framed bed pushed against the north wall of the monk’s cottage, stepping aside only when Cadfael gently nudged her shoulder, so he could examine the ailing knight. Meanwhile, Tyrion clasped his hands behind his back as he paced back and forth in front of the hearth, his mouth drawn in an anguished and worried frown. 

The holy brother lifted Jaime’s right arm and examined his stump, where the redness and swelling that had plagued the knight for years had finally diminished, the iron hook being considerably lighter than the hideous golden hand. Brienne had removed the hook a few days ago, not because it was bothering Jaime, but in fear of him accidentally impaling himself or one of his companions in a violent convulsion. 

Cadfael forced open Jaime’s tightly closed eyes, dilated so only a small ring of emerald bordered the edges of his pupils. The monk mumbled under his breath as he ran his calloused fingers over Jaime’s skull. The holy brother took special note of the rough scar tissue, each knot and scar a reminder that three years ago the brick and stone of the Red Keep had collapsed on top of the knight, causing Jaime to lose his memory and his sister and queen to lose her life. 

After his initial examination, the monk announced in a deep rumbling voice, “This isn’t a natural affliction.”

Jaime moaned and began to thrash against the cot. Falling down to her knees, Brienne brushed his hair away from his face and kissed his temple. His skin felt cold and clammy against her lips. 

“You’re safe,” she whispered into his brow. “Don’t listen to the shadows.”

Clutching Brienne’s hand tightly and trying to focus on her eyes, Jaime wheezed painfully. “Brienne,” he cried, his voice cracked and raw. “You deserve a better man than I could ever be.”

“Those are the king’s words, not yours,” Brienne said, shaking her head, “and will you please let me decide who I deserve?”

Suddenly, Cadfael stood and growled deeply, “You are not welcome here, Anforlætan—I think you should leave.”

“My good man—“ Tyrion started, his voice dropping away only when he noticed the old monk wasn’t looking at them, but staring into the darkly shifting shadows in the far corner of his cottage.

The candles that filled the cottage in a golden light suddenly flickered, and the entire cottage was cast in a murky burnt amber glow. The orange light was accompanied by a strange unearthly wind, which roared through the workshop, causing the windows and door to rattle and burst open. 

Just as suddenly, silence filled the cottage. Even Jaime stopped moaning and fell into a deep and peaceful sleep.

“What was that?” Tyrion demanded, although he couldn’t hide the slight tremor in his voice.

“Not a what,” the holy brother replied, turning to Tyrion and raising an eyebrow. “A who. An etheric shadow, and I believe you know whose shadow creature it was…My Lord Hand.”

“You know who we are?” Tyrion sighed. “I had hoped—”

“We have put you in danger.” Brienne looked worried as she stood up to her full height. “We should go.” 

“We are quite safe for the present, my dear,” Cadfael said reassuringly, “and I believe Ser Jaime, is it? Yes. He is in no condition to travel.”

“Helping us would be an act of treason against the king and realm,” Brienne stammered.

“Not helping you would be an act of treason against the Seven,” Cadfael replied firmly. Digging through an old trunk near the bed, the monk pulled out several thick blankets and handed them to Brienne and Tyrion. “Rest near the fire, while I tend to your knight.”

Cadfael watched as Brienne and Tyrion settled down in front of the hearth before arranging seven colorful candles in precise order on his workbench. The old monk then placed an eighth candle, the color of burnt amber, separate from the other seven. Lighting each one, he began to chant.

-o0o-

A pleasant chanting drew Jaime out of his dreams. His eyes fluttered open, and he found himself in a dark and cluttered cottage. An old man sat hunched over a low work table, chanting softly as he dripped wax from an orange candle onto six stone pendants arranged on the table in front of him.

“Are you a maester?” Jaime asked as he rose up onto his elbows, his voice low and gravely from ill use.

“No,” Cadfael answered, turning to look down at the knight. “I am a monk.”

“What was that song?” Jaime asked curiously. 

“A simple cantrip,” Cadfael hummed as he rose to his feet and hobbled over to Jaime. In his hand the holy brother held a simple stone amulet attached to a braided leather cord. “But enough to keep shadow creatures at bay.”

Cadfael gently placed the amulet around Jaime’s neck before sitting down on a plain wooden chair next to the bed. Eight glowing runes, etched onto the cardinal directions, shimmered softly with a warm yellow light. The runes surrounded a seven-pointed star engraved in the center of the stone.

Jaime picked up the stone pendant, and in his hand the runes faded to blue. “I was raised in the faith of the Seven, but I haven’t worshipped them in years.”

The holy brother patted Jaime’s hand and smiled. “It doesn’t matter, because I still do.”

“I never heard of a holy brother of the Seven casting spells before,” Jaime said as he considered the old monk. “You’re a most unusual monk.”

“I was forty years in the world before I took to the cowl,” Cadfael replied, tapping the seven-pointed star carved in the center of the pendant. “My faith helps focus and control the spell.”

As his gaze took in the single room, Jaime noticed the sleeping forms near the hearth: Brienne and Tyrion by their size and shape. The rest of the quiet cottage looked like a typical maester’s chamber; vials and earthenware jugs of medicine filled every available shelf and drying herbs hung from the rafters. 

Jaime turned back to the monk and asked, “You studied at the Citadel?”

“For a time. I was a second-born son of a very minor house in the Fingers. It was expected,” Cadfael chuckled,and his eyes seemed to darken as he remembered his youth. 

“I thought I recognized the accent,” Jaime said haughtily. “Although I wasn’t aware the Fingers produced many wizards.”

“It doesn’t,” Cadfael confirmed with a shrug and a wry smile. “It was during the War of the Ninepenny Kings that I began my path to magic and wizardry.”

“You were a soldier?” Jaime asked as he sat up, letting the old monk position several pillows behind his back.

“I went against the wishes of my house, my brother and father. They supported the Targaryen king, Jaehaerys,” Cadfael continued as he lowered his old frame down onto the wooden chair and rested his hands on his knees. “I believed Maelys Blackfyre would make a better king, a stronger king, so I ran from the Citadel and joined the rebellion.”

“And after, you were exiled to Essos.” Jaime nodded knowingly. “Did your family ever forgive you?”

Cadfael shook his head sadly. “They are all gone. My nephew’s machinations destroyed my house. I am the last of my line.”

Jaime nodded in understanding. Most of his own family were gone, killed in the wars that had plagued the realm for the last decade. There were a few distant cousins left in Lannisport, but of the main Lannister line only he and Tyrion remained. “How did you survive in Essos, without a house or family?”

The old monk sighed. “For many years, I was a foot soldier in the Golden Company and then any mercenary band that would have me, wretched soul that I was.”

Jaime wondered what Cadfael possibly could have done while exiled in Essos. Although he had just met the holy brother, he found it hard to believe the kind old monk had ever been wretched.

“I fought everywhere from the hills of Andalos to Yi Ti to the Shadowlands,” Cadfael continued in a haunting voice. “Waging war in the Shadow Lands, you either learn to protect yourself from magic or you die.”


	2. The Colors of Magic

Chapter Two  
The Colors of Magic

Sleep came, inescapable as the moon rising or the tide crashing against the rocky shores of Tarth. Brienne tried to fight the growing darkness; Jaime was suffering and she needed to stay awake in case he called for her.

As the holy brother began to chant, Brienne felt a cloak of sleep drape around her. Her eyes grew weary as the melodious tones drew a soft orange curtain around her somnolent mind. 

When Brienne woke, only gently glowing embers remained of the fire that had blazed in the hearth the night before. Confusion and panic saturated her mind. Where am I? Where is Jaime?

“Jaime!” Brienne cried out as she sat up, her eyes searching the dark cottage. She found him sitting at the workbench, the light of a single candle burning low as he idly paged through one of the holy brother’s old books.

“Quietly,” Jaime hushed, tapping his finger to his lips. His eyes gestured toward the old monk slumped on the slat-framed bed, fast asleep. “He worked through the night.”

“You’re better,” Brienne breathed softly as she fell into his arms, tears welling up in her eyes and clouding her vision. “How? When?”

“Brother Cadfael dispelled the king’s shadow creature.” Jaime motioned to the sleeping monk and shook his head. “I never thought I would be indebted to a Sparrow.” 

Laying her head on his shoulder, Brienne noticed the stone amulet tied around Jaime’s neck.

“What’s this?” she asked curiously, pulling the crude talisman from under Jaime’s tunic. The runes, which glowed softly blue, began to gradually fade to purple.

“A talisman, hiding and protecting us from the king and his influence,” Jaime whispered, motioning to five more amulets laying on the table. “Brother Cadfael made one for each of us.”

Upon hearing his name, the old monk snorted in his sleep, and the bed creaked as he repositioned his weight. The amulet in Brienne’s hand faded from deep purple to yellow.

“What’s it doing?” Brienne asked, looking down at the soft yellow glow.

Jaime smiled. “Sensing magic.” 

“Should we be worried?” Brienne shivered as she looked up from the amulet and into Jaime’s emerald eyes.

“According to Brother Cadfael, there is magic in everything and everyone,” Jaime said, taking the pendant from her hands. The glow faded back to blue. “He said we needn’t worry about slight changes. The crystal discerns random magical energy from a person’s emotional state and their character.”

-o0o-

Cadfael’s small cottage, on the edge of the abbey grounds, was far enough away from the sept to offer the old monk some peace and privacy. Or rather it offered the other Sparrows peace from foul-smelling concoctions and the occasional magical incantations. 

Although magic wasn’t expressly forbidden by the Faith of the Seven, its use was frowned upon by some of the more fundamental members of the Faith Militant. Luckily for the old monk, the Elder Brother of Shrewsbury Abbey, although devoted in his own beliefs, had a nonconformist streak that would often vex the more austere brothers.

The only disadvantage of so much solitude was the distance Cadfael had to travel each day to reach the sept for prayer. The old monk had already slept through the Morning Prayer, and if he didn’t make an appearance at Midday Prayer, he knew his fellow brothers would come to investigate his absence. 

His path led across a small stream that bordered the abbey grounds and through the vast fields where the holy brothers grew vegetables as well as wheat and barley, which they harvested to distill into a strong medicinal whiskey. 

Cadfael heard the rising chant of the holy brothers as he neared the sept. Picking up his pace, he hurried inside and hastened to his place in the choir. He received a stern glare from Prior Robert. Cadfael sighed, aware that after the prayer he would be chastised for his tardiness.

Prior Robert didn’t disappoint, cornering Cadfael as he left the sept and lecturing him about the example he set for the young novices. The old monk could only nod and humbly accept the reprimand. He couldn’t very well tell the prior he was late because there were three fugitives hiding in his cottage. 

“I heard you chanting late into the night, Brother Cadfael,” the Elder Brother hummed as he walked up behind the prior. “A powerful ward of protection, if I am not mistaken.” 

Cadfael shuffled his feet and found himself on the receiving end of another of Prior Robert’s harsh stares.

“Magic?” The prior sneered, raising his chin and scowling down at old monk. “You waste time on magic? Instead of attending Morning Prayer? Not to mention being late for Midday Prayer.”

It was an old argument. Sighing, Cadfael replied, “Magic is not forbidden, as you well know Prior Robert. Once it was common practice amongst the faithful.” 

“Indeed,” the Elder Brother said in agreement. “In ancient Andalos, ritual magic was practiced in most rites of the Faith.”

The prior knew when he was outnumbered and glowered, “Just try to be on time for prayer.”

“Yes, of course,” Brother Cadfael said, dipping his head respectfully. “I will strive to be more conscious of the passage of time in the future.”

“Just see that you do,” Prior Robert growled curtly, before stalking away from Cadfael and the Elder Brother. 

“Thank you, Elder Brother,” Cadfael whispered.

“He is right, though,” the Elder Brother said, patting Cadfael’s shoulder. “The practice of magic shouldn’t interfere with your duties to the Seven.”

“I am sorry, Elder Brother,” Cadfael replied humbly/ “I can’t go into details, but I assure you the ward was no idle fancy. The enchantment was a matter of life or death.”

“I do not doubt it,” the Elder Brother replied kindly, “and I trust your judgment.”

As he made his way back to his cottage after Midday Prayer, Cadfael smiled at his fellow Sparrows tranquilly returning to their work in the abbey’s vast fields of wheat and barley. The golden ears of grain soaked in the sunshine as the tall grasses waved softly in the afternoon sun. 

Cadfael increased his stride as he neared his workshop; he had guests in his cottage. Guests who urgently wished to remain secret. It was a risk leaving them alone while he attended prayers; they could have easily been discovered. However, Cadfael couldn’t neglect his duties. His faith was what kept him grounded; it was what saved him in the Shadow Lands.

He had of course taken precautions to insure the secrecy of this guests. The old monk had sent his assistant, Brother Oswyn, to work in the infirmary, releasing the young brother from his daily duties cleaning Cadfael’s workshop. 

The old monk had told the young novice he was brewing a special tonic that could easily spoil if disturbed. Cadfael wasn’t at all surprised to see the relief on his tall, young assistant’s face. 

“Oh, Brother Cadfael!” a patronizing voice called just as the old monk had reached for the door of his cottage. 

Cadfeal sighed as he let his hand drop from the door’s latch, recognizing the condescending tone of Brother Jerome. Cadfael turned and spotted the smallish monk trudging toward him, followed closely by Ser Hugh Beringar, the deputy sheriff of the Vale and Cadfael’s closest friend. 

If it had been any other day, the old monk would have been pleased to see Ser Hugh. They would share a jug of Brother Cadfael’s home-brewed ale and talk of events in the Vale and the realm. However, today was not a good day. If he discovered Cadfael’s guests, the knight would feel honor-bound to arrest the fugitives hiding in old monk’s cottage. 

-o0o-

Tyrion had found the ancient magical tome stuffed behind several other books and scrolls on the old monk’s small bookshelf. The pages of the old leather-bound book were faded yellow and brittle with age. 

The text of the ancient tome, although written in the common tongue of the Andals, had no words of Valyrian or the forgotten language of the First Men, which had seeped into the common tongue over the course of several centuries. Likewise, the phrases were arranged strangely and most of the words were spelled incorrectly. Well, incorrectly by the standards of the present day. Archaic words filled the pages, and Tyrion had to search his memory to understand them. Tyrion pronounced each word out loud slowly, his brows creasing together in concentration. 

“What does that even mean?” Jaime asked. He and Brienne sat at the workbench watching as Tyrion read from the ancient tome. 

“The blue runes on the amulet means honor.” Tyrion slammed his hand down on the worktable, delighted to have finally translated the ancient text. “The color blue represents strength, loyalty and honor.” 

“I knew it,” Brienne said, pointing at the softly glowing runes on the pendant around Jaime’s neck. “I told you, there is honor in you.”

Jaime scowled, like he was caught in the act of stealing lemon cakes from the kitchen instead of hearing definitive proof of his honor. 

“What does purple mean?” Jaime asked his brother, although his eyes locked with Brienne’s as he scoffed, “Stubbornness? Judgmental?”

Tyrion flipped through the faded pages, scowling at the strange text of the book before finding the correct entry. Tyrion rubbed his temple and searched his memory for the archaic terms. “Oh, innocence. Purple means forgiveness, justice and innocence.” 

A wide smile spread across Jaime’s face as he watched Brienne fidget with the amulet she wore around her neck, the runes etched into its hard surface glowing brightly purple. A rosy blush spread from her hairline down to her cheeks. 

“I would think innocence would be white,” Brienne huffed.

Tyrion shook his head. “It says here, the Maiden personified in white embodies purity, power and simplicity. It is usually only found in the very young and in nature.”

Suddenly all of the runes flickered yellow, except Tyrion’s, whose pendant was already glowing a soft golden yellow. The latch of the door quivered slightly.

“Oh, Brother Cadfael!” an unfamiliar but patronizing voice called. The latch fell silent as the runes on their pendants flickered again, shimmering crimson for only a moment before fading back to their original color. 

“Red is hostility, anger and chaos,” Tyrion mouthed soundlessly as Jaime and Brienne quietly rose to their feet, drawing their swords as they silently inched toward the door.

“Brother Jerome.” They heard the old monk’s answer wafting through the door.

Through cracks in the rough-hewn walls of the cottage, Brienne and Jaime could see Brother Cadfael as he drifted away from the door to intercept two men walking toward his workshop. 

“I suppose this means you will once again be involving yourself in some sort of intrigue?” the voice of Brother Jerome groused. “Need I remind you what our order has already suffered by meddling in secular affairs?”

“I am sure Ser Hugh is not planning to disrupt the realm,” Cadfael scoffed. 

The disastrous events of several years ago in King’s Landing had seriously damaged the reputation of the Faith Militant. After the High Sparrow, the leader of their order, had gotten involved in politics and schemes of the royal court, the surviving Sparrows were forced to flee the capital. They had gone underground, hidden and secluded in the small village in the shadow of the Mountains of the Moon. 

The Faith Militant had since stayed clear of the politics of the realm. All except for Cadfael, it seemed. Whenever the old monk and the handsome young sheriff got together, they wound up involved in the investigation of some appalling scandal or ghastly murder. It was all rather inappropriate, in Brother Jerome’s opinion.

The knight looked at the small monk and said, “I am only here to collect the tonic Brother Cadfael prepared for my father.”

Inside the cottage, on hearing Ser Hugh’s voice, Brienne quietly gasped, “Hugh.” Brienne edged closer to the wall, so she could get a better view of the three men talking in front of the cottage.

Jaime turned to stare at Brienne, his eyebrows furrowing together. From the softness of her voice, he could tell Brienne recognized the handsome knight and, worse yet, she appeared to approve of him.

Sensing his eyes, Brienne turned to look at Jaime and shook her head before turning back to spy through the slats in the wall. 

“Well, if that is all,” Brother Jerome continued suspiciously, bowing to Ser Hugh before excusing himself and hurrying away from the two conspirators. 

After the apprehensive monk had left, Cadfael turned to Hugh and stated, “What tonic? Your father is as healthy as a horse.”

The handsome knight ran his hand through his shaggy blond hair and shrugged. “I am sure the Gods will forgive me a little white lie.”

“In the eyes of the Gods, my old friend, there is nothing little or white about a lie,” the holy brother replied, although in his own soul he felt guilt for the falsehood he would soon have to tell his closest friend. “Why are you really here?”

Ser Hugh picked a stalk of wheat, chewing on the end and leaning against the old wooden fence surrounding Cadfael’s herb garden. Turning to the older man, Ser Hugh replied, “I have need of that extraordinary mind of yours.”

“You need my help locating the traitorous Hand of the King,” Cadfael said dully, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Hugh shook his head and laughed. “I can never surprise you Cadfael. How did you know?”

“I hear things,” the old monk replied smugly. “The smallfolk talk. But what possible help could I be?”

“Tyrion Lannister is rumored to be extremely intelligent,” Hugh replied, eyeing his old friend, “and you are the smartest person I know. If you were him, where would you run?”

“How do you know it is Tyrion Lannister making the decision?” Cadfael asked curiously. “What do you know of his companions?”

“Ser Brienne of House Tarth and Ser Podrick of House Payne. Both highly honored and loyal knights. The King believes there must be some logical explanation for their betrayal.”

The old monk considered Hugh’s words. So the King’s hunters didn’t know about Ser Jaime. It seemed a rather odd detail to leave out; although the lion was maimed, he still had fangs. Either the King didn’t want his men to know about Ser Jaime because he feared their disloyalty—Jaime Lannister was not only a war hero, but he had once been a popular military commander—or King Brandon assumed his shadow creature would have finished its sinister task before his hunters found the unwilling rebels.

The old monk cast a shrewd eye at his young friend; he wanted more information and for that reason he needed to keep Ser Hugh talking. 

“Ser Brienne of Tarth, the first woman knight in the Kingdoms,” Cadfael prompted idly. “Knighted by Jaime Lannister himself before the Long Night and rumored to be the Kingslayer’s–”

“Don’t say it.” Hugh glared down at the monk and retorted, “She is an honorable knight and a high-born lady.”

“You sound like an ardent admirer.” Cadfael smiled knowingly at the younger man.

“We met at Lord Arryn’s Tournament,” Ser Hugh confessed, smiling fondly at the memory of the lady knight. “I found her truly astonishing.”

“Indeed,” Cadfael replied dryly. “And Ser Podrick Payne? What do you know of him?”

Hugh considered the young knight; they had fought together only once, against the Witch of the Vale’s outlaw army, before Lords Tyrion and Robyn had been captured. Although young, Ser Podrick was a fine swordsman and extremely loyal to Ser Brienne. When she was wounded during the attack, Ser Podrick had stayed by her side. After Ser Brienne had recovered from her injuries, both Podrick Payne and Hyle Hunt had defied the king’s orders and accompanied Ser Brienne into the mountains to rescue the Hand of the King.

“The former squire to both Lord Tyrion and Ser Brienne,” Hugh answered with a shrug, “and fiercely loyal to both.”

Cadfael nodded as he joined Ser Hugh at the fence and considered the previous question. “Tyrion Lannister wouldn’t stay in Westeros. If I were him, I would escape to Essos. He may still have allies in Dragon’s Bay.”

Ser Hugh considered old monk’s words and wondered aloud, “We should be watching the ports in Gullstown.” 

“Sounds wise,” Cadfael agreed and ambled to his door. “Now if you will excuse me, I have a sensitive potion brewing on the hearth, which is in need of tending.”

Ser Hugh stood up and said, “If you think of anything else.”

“I’ll send Brother Oswyn,” Cadfael replied. He watched as the knight disappeared in the abbey’s wheat fields before turning back to the door of his cottage.

When the holy brother stepped inside, he was met with three sets of concerned eyes.

“By hiding us, you have put yourself in danger,” Jaime said brusquely as he gathered up his cloak. “If we are discovered–”

Cadfael shook his head and laid a gentle hand on Jaime’s shoulder. “You will be discovered if you venture outside before nightfall.”

Jaime sank down into a chair and ran his fingers through his hair. He hated hiding and feeling trapped. He was a man of action, and he wanted to act. 

“We just have to be patient,” Brienne said calmly, sensing Jaime’s edginess. “Sneak past the king’s men in the dark.”

“And thanks to Brother Cadfael,” Tyrion nodded to the holy brother, “the search will be concentrated around Gullstown.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Cadfael warned, shaking his head. “Ser Hugh is smart and cunning. He knew I was lying. You should stay well clear of the Kingsroad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are love


	3. Mountain Lions and Knights

Chapter Three  
Mountain Lions and Knights

Wind howled through the night, carrying the scent of warm blood, sweet and scarlet. The aroma of marbled flesh, muscle and sinew, the scent of fresh meat. Through the grey darkness of the primeval forest two bright orbs, like candles glowing in the darkness, watched hungrily, tracking the movements of the night-time travelers, calculating their potential as prey or rival predators. 

The mountain lion huffed; the fat donkey smelled of blood and fear—it smelled like prey. However, traveling alongside the beast and walking upright on two legs were other creatures, tall and reedy and smelling very much like predators. The lion’s instincts screamed a warning, telling him the humans were dangerous and not to be trifled with. 

“Easy Daisy.” Cadfael stroked the donkey’s thick neck as the animal brayed in fear. In his other hand, the monk clasped the long dagger he always carried under his robes. 

Brienne and Jaime, walking nearby, also had their hands wrapped around the hilts of their swords, in case the lion decided to risk an attack. The lion chose wisely; it huffed once more before fading back into the thick foliage.

“It’s gone, my dear.” Cadfael breathed out a sigh of relief as he patted the fretful donkey reassuringly.

They had slipped away after dusk had settled onto the village of Shrewsbury and some time after the last compline bell had rung. As he generally knew the surrounding terrain better than any guide, Cadfael insisted on accompanying Tyrion, Jaime and Brienne as far as the ravine where Ser Podrick waited with Jaime’s sons.

“Where were we?” Cadfael asked after the danger of the mountain lion had passed.

“The Shadow Lands,” Tyrion replied. He sat perched on the back of Daisy, Cadfael’s robust old donkey. 

“Oh yes,” the old monk and former soldier tilted his head and smiled wryly. “Wars are fought differently in the Shadow Lands. The mountains are so high that the valleys and river basins only see light once per day, when the sun has risen to its highest point.” 

“You fought in total darkness?” Brienne asked curiously.

“In and against the darkness,” the monk answered. “The creatures that dwell in the deep shadows prey on the light of anyone foolish enough to venture out of Asshai without a powerful ward.”

Jaime had always considered himself worldly, but with a shudder he realized he truly wasn’t. The old monk had seen more horrors and fierce battles than Jaime could ever imagine. He had probably seen creatures far worse than dragons or even the living dead.

“Do you regret it?” Jaime asked. “Defying your family? Fighting as a mercenary against unknown horrors on the other side of the world? Does the guilt of abandoning your family not eat at your soul?”

“No, I do not feel guilty.” Cadfael shook his head and turned to Jaime. “But you do, I believe.”

“What I have done is unforgivable.” Jaime sighed and closed his eyes. “All in the name of my house and family. My–my sister.”

“I have also done unspeakable things, some in hindsight I realize now were quite terrible.” Cadfael reached over and patted Jaime’s shoulder, a sympathetic and understanding look in the old soldier's eyes. “A soldier often does. Although at the time, I thought I was doing the right thing. As did you.”

“At the time–yes, I believed I was protecting my family and–and the woman I loved–” Jaime sighed, the last word dropping away like a heavy weight on his soul.

He had pushed Brandon Stark from the tower to save the lives of Cersei and their children. He killed his distant cousin to expedite his escape from captivity and return to his sweet sister, who he had left alone in the rat’s nest that was King’s Landing, not yet willing to believe Cersei was the worst rat of them all. 

“Even though he isn’t a soldier, I believe Lord Tyrion understands.” Cadfael nodded to Tyrion, who looked up at the mention of his name. “Your brother has made mistakes, caused the death of countless people, even loved ones. Guilt does not eat away at his soul, because he believed and still believes he was making the right decision. You could learn from your brother’s example.”

“But I do feel guilty, for Myrcella, Tommen. Even for Joffrey, Cersei and father and for..for Shae,” Tyrion replied, the remorse heavy in his voice.

“What you feel is regret,” Cadfael said knowingly. “Regret for succumbing to anger, regret that you failed to anticipate the outcome of events.”

“And that’s why the king’s shadow doesn’t affect me?” Tyrion asked.

“That, and your agile mind, is the reason why the king’s shadow creature doesn’t affect you as much. But do not be fooled, the shadow creature has affected you, both of you,” Cadfael replied perceptively, looking at both Tyrion and Brienne. “Causing you to lose focus and make stupid mistakes.” 

“What stupid mistakes?!” Tyrion said indignantly.

“I can name a few,” Jaime laughed. 

Brienne nodded in agreement, a smirk on her face. “More than a few, actually.”

Tyrion scoffed at Jaime and Brienne’s deficiency in humor. But if he was honest, in the last few years of the war, his judgment had declined. What had Sansa said? "I used to think you were the cleverest man alive."

-o0o-

The early morning light drifted down into the ravine, the dew lingering on the leafy foliage reflecting the morning sun, shimmering like tiny shards of glass. Gnarled roots and twisting vines clung tightly to the soaring cliffs on three sides of the hidden gorge. The only path into the ravine wove its way down a steep embankment.

The ravine, in the midst of the forest, was difficult to find and easy to miss, if one didn’t already know of its existence. It was only by luck that Arik had found the hidden ravine and the small cave. They had hoped it would be the perfect place for Podrick and the boys to lay low while Tyrion and Brienne sought help for Jaime.

“Pod!” Tyrion called, after they climbed down the winding path leading into the ravine. The only response was that of a small furry creature, which darted from under the dead leaves and twigs littering the ground.

Brienne worried her bottom lip; three days hadn’t yet passed. Podrick wouldn’t have left, unless they were in danger.

“Podrick! Where are you, lad?” Tyrion called again, somewhat more urgently. Looking around the ravine, it didn’t appear like there had been a struggle; the ravine was just empty.

“Stop right there!” a voice shouted gruffly, startling everyone. They turned just as Ser Hugh Beringar made his way down the embankment and into the ravine

The knight drew his sword as he hurried toward them. “You are under arrest, by order of the king.”

Cadfael hurriedly stepped forward to intercept the knight. “Hugh, you don’t understand.”

“Oh, I understand quite well, my old friend.” Hugh looked at the holy brother and smiled smugly. “I knew you were hiding something, Cadfael, which is why I followed you.”

“What have you done with my sons?!” Jaime roared as he drew his sword. 

Ser Hugh leveled his own sword at Jaime and snarled, “Drop your sword!”

“Ser Hugh, please don’t do this,” Brienne breathed, stepping between the two knights.

Hugh’s face seemed to soften as he looked into Brienne’s eyes. “Ser Brienne, I am truly sorry you are involved in this.”

“You once told me,” Brienne said calmly as she slowly walked toward the knight, laying her hand gently on his sword arm, “you always knew when there was more to a story than you were being told.”

The knight stared at her, his brow creasing with indecision. Finally he uttered, “I swore an oath to uphold the king’s laws.”

Brienne tightened her grip on Hugh’s arm. “An oath sworn to a tyrant is no real oath.” She turned her head and looked into Jaime’s eyes. “The most honorable knight I ever met taught me that.” 

Hugh knitted his brows. “You would ask me to betray my oath?”

“These good people are innocent,” Cadfael added urgently. “We would ask you to do the right thing.”

Hugh’s eyes moved from Cadfael to Brienne to Tyrion and finally landed on Jaime, who still had his sword drawn, a scowl on his face. 

Sensing the tension, Tyrion pulled on his brother’s arm and hissed, “Lower your sword, Jaime.”

Jaime growled, but grudgingly sheathed his blade. However, he kept a steady, suspicious eye on the other knight.

“Now you, Hugh,” Cadfael said, crossing his arms and staring at the knight. “Lower your sword and we can talk like civilized people.”

The knight nodded and sheathed his own weapon. Turning back to Brienne, he said, “I’m listening.”

“Have you arrested Ser Podrick Payne and two boys?” Brienne asked, studying the knight’s face.

“No.” Hugh shook his head in confusion. “I only followed you here.”

“He’s lying,” Jaime sneered.

Brienne turned to look back at Jaime and said, “No, he’s not, Jaime. Ser Hugh is an honorable knight, and I trust him.”

Jaime roared like an angry lion ready to pounce. Swinging his hook at an innocent sapling, Jaime stomped a short distance away. Sitting down under a tall oak tree, he occasionally glared up at Brienne and Ser Hugh as they talked with Cadfael and Tyrion. 

_Naive wench believing in knightly honor. How could she still be so gullible?_ Jaime thought. He just knew Ser Hugh was up to something._ No one is that noble. _

Jaime didn’t like the way the younger knight was looking at the wench._ My wench._ Neither did he like the way Brienne’s face came to life as she looked back at the handsome knight. 

If Jaime was being honest, he had to admit they looked good together. Ser Hugh and Brienne appeared to be around the same age, while Jaime was at least fifteen years her senior. The knight was shorter than Brienne; most men were. He was shorter than Jaime, but not by much—only an inch at most. And unlike Jaime, Brienne had no reason to question Ser Hugh’s honor. 

_And why does she keep touching his arm?_ Jaime growled under his breath. 

Finally Jaime closed his eyes; he couldn’t watch anymore. The rustling of dry leaves alerted him to someone approaching. Looking up, he saw Tyrion walking toward him.

“What’s wrong with you?” Tyrion asked, crossing his arms and regarding his brother dubiously.

“Nothing. Only my sons are missing, and she–him–it’s,” Jaime sneered as he glared back at Hugh and Brienne, in his opinion standing way too close as they talked with the old monk. “Nothing is wrong.”

Tyrion looked behind him to the two knights, and turning back to Jaime, he raised his eyebrows and smirked. “Nothing?”

“What do you want, Tyrion?” Jaime growled, refusing to meet his brother’s eyes. 

“I want you to stop moping over here like some lovesick fool. We need to plan our next move.”

Sighing, Jaime stood up and followed Tyrion as he joined the rest of the group.

As he and Tyrion approached, Jaime heard as Brienne said in a soft voice, “Are you sure you won’t come with us?” 

_No, he is not coming with us!_ Jaime screamed internally. 

“My place is here,” Hugh replied, shaking his head. “Protecting the smallfolk of the Vale.”

_Can anyone be more sickeningly honorable?_ Jaime wondered. Then he realized his wench could. The younger knight was Brienne’s perfect match. 

“We have placed your lives in danger.” Brienne inhaled sharply, laying her hand once again on Hugh’s arm and looking at Cadfael with concern. “The king will surely know you have helped us,”

“We are quite safe, my dear,” the old monk said as he pulled a finely crafted pewter amulet free from his cowl. The runes around the border of the pendant glowed brightly yellow. Casting a glance at Ser Hugh, the monk said, “Hugh.”

The knight looked confused for only a moment before he nodded and drew a similar pewter amulet from under his armor; the engraved runes glowed the same shade of blue as the runes on Jaime’s amulet.

Brienne looked at Jaime and raised an eyebrow; it was more proof of both Jaime’s honor and Ser Hugh’s.

Jaime grunted and rolled his eyes. 

“I made these a few years ago,” Cadfael explained, “using the same ward I used on your talismans, as a precaution against the strange happenings occurring throughout the Vale. These will protect us from the king’s machinations. He can neither spy nor influence either of us.”

“I guess this is goodbye, Ser Brienne,” Hugh said as he drew her hand to his lips, gently kissing her long fingers. 

Jaime didn’t like the rosy hue that spread across Brienne’s face. 

“Yes, it was a pleasure meeting you,” Jaime said quickly, edging between his wench and Ser Hugh and cuffing the younger knight none too gently on his back.

“Jaime!” Brienne squeaked, mortified by his rude behavior.

Meanwhile, Cadfael pulled a bundle wrapped in rough silk from Daisy’s saddlebag. “Lord Tyrion, I have a gift for you.” The holy brother handed the package to Tyrion. “This will help you understand the power residing inside the amulets.”

Tyrion gasped in awe as he pulled aside the silk revealing the ancient magical tome from Cadfael’s bookshelf. “This is priceless!”

“Study it wisely,” Cadfael said. “It may save your life. It saved mine more than once, in the Shadow Lands.”

After the holy brother and the knight had made their way up the embankment and disappeared into the thick forest, Tyrion, Jaime and Brienne did another cursory search of the ravine and the surrounding area. They found their horses, grazing near a small pond not far from the ravine. A message stuffed into the bottom of the saddlebag of Brienne’s chestnut brown destrier simply read, Gone to find the candle in the broken tower. 

Confused by the cryptic message, Tyrion asked, “What does it mean?”

“Winterfell,” Brienne replied, remembering the candle Lady Sansa had placed in Winterfell’s broken tower as a signal for Brienne and Podrick to rescue her. “They’ve gone ahead to Winterfell, and Podrick wants us to follow him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are Love


	4. Night Terrors

Chapter Four  
Night Terrors

_One day previously._

Podrick’s breath hitched. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, the young knight reached for his sword; something had woken him from a deep and sullen sleep. It might have been the lack of sound from the forest ravine outside, as it had grown eerily quiet. Or the moon shining unusually bright as it illuminated the entrance to the cave in which Podrick, Arik and Kaylan had sought shelter for the night. 

The earthy scent of moss and ferns perfumed the damp air of the ravine. Loose gravel stirred as Podrick rose to his feet, the sound of the shifting stones echoing off the granite walls of the cave. 

The young knight frowned as his eyes fell on Arik, who was supposed to be on watch, fast asleep near the back of the cave. He had believed the lad more responsible; Podrick had even considered asking Ser Jaime if he could take the boy on as a squire.

The hairs on the back of Podrick’s neck stood up as the cave darkened. Turning, he saw a looming shadow standing at the entrance, blocking the moonlight. The shadowy figure shifted to reveal a bald man with hollow cheeks and deep-set colorless pale eyes.

“Un–uncle?” Podrick gasped, as a shiver ran down his spine. 

Ser Ilyn Payne wasn’t really the young knight’s uncle; he was a distant relative. The honorific of uncle was only used out of deference to the older relative. Even as a child, Podrick had found the mute executioner terrifying. 

No one had seen Ilyn Payne since the fall of King’s Landing. Although his body was never found, most people believed the former Queen’s Justice was one of the countless burned and disfigured corpses that were still being pulled from the wreckage of the Red Keep. 

In his gnarled hands, the silent executioner clutched a greatsword, its sheath formed from the pelt of a giant grey wolf. As Ilyn Payne drew the weapon, the Valyrian steel blade glimmered smoky blue in the moonlight. Podrick had never laid eyes on Ned Stark’s sword, but somehow he knew the large blade was indeed the legendary greatsword, Ice. 

The fact that Ice had been destroyed and re-forged into Oathkeeper, which Ser Brienne still carried, and Widow’s Wail, which had been renamed Ice Shard and returned to Queen Sansa in Winterfell, didn’t even enter Podrick’s conscious mind. 

As the mute executioner stepped into the cave, a heavy weight pressed down on Podrick’s back and shoulders, forcing the young knight to his knees. Struggling to lift his head, Podrick looked up into the steely eyes of the mute executioner. Podrick’s voice croaked as he tried to shout, only to find his tongue missing. Before the darkness enveloped him, Podrick silently watched in terror as his uncle swung the greatsword down. 

Podrick’s breath hitched. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, the young knight reached for his sword; something had woken him from a deep and sullen sleep. It might have been the disturbing nightmare. Or the hands urgently shaking him awake.

“Ser Podrick?!” Arik exclaimed as he shook the young knight’s shoulder. “You cried out in your sleep.”

Ilyn Payne hadn’t emerged from the shadows to execute him. Neither had Arik fallen asleep on his watch. The lad appeared very much awake and alert. It was just a dream. A nightmare.

Reaching up to rub his neck, Podrick exhaled a sigh of relief. “It was only a dream.” 

The nightmare had felt real; the young knight could even remember the earthy scent of moss and ferns lingering in the air. Shakily, Ser Podrick stood, loose gravel crunching under his boots. Announcing he needed some fresh air, Podrick stepped outside. 

The moon glimmered brightly above the trees, bathing the forest in a silvery light. Vines and tree roots gripped tightly against the steep cliffs on three sides of the ravine. The only passage in and out was a small path that led up the steep embankment on the far side of the ravine. 

“Stole a ham.” The voice sounded hollow, bodiless, lingering on the breeze gusting through the ravine. Podrick recognized the haughty voice as belonging to Tywin Lannister. 

“No, it was Ser Lorimer,” Podrick answered the wind.

“Thief!” the bodiless voice of Tywin Lannister accused.

"He wasn't a thief,” the young knight replied to the hollow voice. “He was drunk and hungry and he wasn't thinking."

Podrick wondered if he still slept as he turned again, searching for the source of the ghostly voice. Almost immediately, he spied the stranger cloaked in darkness standing near the cliff wall.

“Who goes there?” Podrick asked as he drew his sword, stepping toward the mysterious stranger.

Podrick gasped as the dark stranger stepped out from the shadows. Cold steely eyes stared into his soul. Once again Podrick Payne stood face-to-face with Ilyn Payne. The former Queen’s Justice opened his mouth, and a harsh and inhuman shriek echoed off the cliff walls as thousands of crows flew from the executioner’s mouth. The crows and Ilyn Payne suddenly dissolved into smoke, dispersing on the breeze.

“What was that?” Arik said shakenly.

Podrick turned to see Arik standing near the cave entrance, the boy’s brown eyes blown in terror.

“The king has found us,” replied Podrick numbly. “Wake your brother, we’re leaving.”

\^/

The icy whiteness of the king’s eyes shattered. His head lurched forward and his pupils dilated and darkened to their natural color as the king’s consciousness returned to his broken body in the frigid royal bedchamber in Meagor’s Holdfast.

A forgetful maidservant had left the balcony window open, and its long curtains twirled and twisted in response to the crisp wind blowing in from Blackwater Bay. Even though the king felt the chill, he couldn’t be bothered. Nothing much bothered Brandon Stark, not anymore. 

The king’s etheric shadow had found Ser Podrick and the sons of Jaime Lannister. The knight had hidden in a secluded ravine deep in the foothills of the Mountains of the Moon. However, the king’s attempts to frighten the young knight into error had only succeeded in driving Podrick into action. 

It was nearly impossible to influence the boys the knight protected. The innocence of youth gave the very young a natural ward against magic. The older boy, Arik, could sometimes be manipulated by the king’s shadowy whispers. The lad’s guilt for his part in his mother’s deception weighed heavily on his soul, which opened his mind to the king’s psychic attacks. 

However, more often than not, the youth simply ignored the haunting visions and shadowy whispers. The younger child, Kaylan, in his youthful innocence, remained totally immune to the king’s shadowy suggestions, his mind and thoughts hidden from the Three-Eyed Raven’s sight. 

King Brandon knew Ser Brienne would never willingly leave her former squire behind, as Ser Jaime would never willingly leave his sons. His quarry must still be in the Vale. Even though the visions were beginning to tax his health and mind, the king continued his search.

He had lost them twice already, the first time when the older of the two boys—who Jaime Lannister still claimed as his sons, even though the knight now knew the truth—had thrown a stone at the king’s feathered spy. The large black crow’s instincts had taken over, forcing the Three-Eyed Raven’s mind to the background as it took to the air. 

It had taken the king several hours before he found his prey once again. The crow had been a mistake and easily spotted by his quarry. This time he wouldn’t be seen; not many people could perceive the ghostly presence of an etheric shadow. Until it was too late.

However, something had been wrong. The world appeared distorted, as if the Three-Eyed Raven was watching events unfold through dark and murky orange-tinted water. The small cottage into which his prey had fled was surrounded by a powerful ward, preventing the king from discerning their location, or identifying to whom Tyrion and Brienne spoke. Even their voices were muddled, veiled behind an insistent buzzing. 

Then the unthinkable happened. Through the burnt amber veil and deafening buzz, the Three-Eyed Raven heard one voice, one word clearly: _“Anforlætan!” _

Brandon Stark was unfamiliar with that magical command. It wasn’t elemental, like the magic of the Children of the Forest and the Old Gods. Nor was it high magic, like the intricate chants and spells the ancient Valyrians had first used to tame their dragons, and wizards in Essos and the followers of the Lord of Light still used in incantations to this day.

It took only one single word to dispel the king’s etheric shadow, crashing into his shadowy creature like a wave breaking against the shore. _Who would know such a word? _

The king’s etheric shadow was suddenly hurled back into the Three-Eyed Raven so violently he was thrown backwards and his chair had toppled over. Knocked unconscious by the ferocious, magical shove, the king was forced to lay prone on the hard flagstone floors of his chambers until Grandmaester Tarly had found him the next morning. 

There were few people in all of Westeros who had both the knowledge and the skill to create such a powerful ward, not including the Children of the Forest and their descendants, the Crannogmen and the Green Men of the Isle of Faces. 

The king had kept a close eye on all the magic practitioners in the realm. The woods witch, Maggy the Frog, long-since dead, might have once been able to spawn such a powerful ward. There was also the strange archmaester at the Citadel, Marwyn the Mage, who most certainly possessed secret knowledge of wards and magical spells. However, he rarely left Oldtown and had never before meddled in the machinations of the highborn rulers of the realm. Martyn of Shadowmire would have known how to create a magical ward; however, the old wizard, the last of the summer Reynes, had left Westeros many years ago after the death of his wife and children. 

As well, each of these practitioners in the magical arts had only ever worked with the elemental magic of the Old Gods or the high magic of ancient Valyria. A single magic word holding so much power was something new to Westeros. Although Brandon suspected the magic was itself far, far older, a power which had until recently been lost in time.

“Bran, you have to be careful. The Decay is accelerating.” Sam hovered, checking Brandon for injuries. The grandmaester frowned down at the king and said sternly, “Magic takes a heavy toll. Even the greenseers of the Children of the Forest’s lives were shortened by its use.” 

“I have years before the Decay does any real damage,” the Three-Eyed Raven replied, ignoring Sam’s overly dramatized warnings.

“I mean it Bran, no more visions.” 

It took hours for the king to finally convince Samwell Tarely to leave him be and return to his own chambers, where his wife and children no doubt waited for his return. The king had lied when he promised the grandmaester he would limit the use of magic. When Samwell finally left, after begging the king to get some sleep, the Three-Eyed Raven was finally able to resume his search, only to discover he could no longer locate the minds of Jaime Lannister and his companions. 

There was always the possibility they had died. They could have been attacked; it was still a dangerous world. Which only proved the rightness of King Brandon’s agenda—the realm must be made safe, no matter the cost. However, the king would not be so quick to jump to that conclusion, not again. He needed to be sure. 

If he could still feel any emotion, the Three-Eyed Raven would have felt frustrated. However, that was not him, not anymore. Annoyance, avarice, fear, anger, even joy were all emotions the king no longer felt. Like the cold wind gusting in from Blackwater Bay, he just couldn’t be bothered.

He hadn’t sent his etheric shadow to drive Daenerys Targaryen nor Jaime Lannister to the edge of madness in a covetous bid for power or malicious need for revenge. At least that is what he wanted to believe, that he was above petty jealousy and vengeance. 

The Three-Eyed Raven hadn’t envied Daenerys Targaryen her crown. After so many years of war, the realm needed peace and stability, an end to the chaos. It was true, the Dragon Queen had wanted to break the wheel and create a lasting peace. However, Brandon Stark knew she would never succeed in that lofty goal. 

Under Targaryen rule, the realm would eventually fall back into chaos. Maybe not in Daenerys’ or even her children’s lifetime, but eventually the realm would again be consumed by endless wars. The king couldn’t allow that to happen, and only he could prevent those future wars from happening. Only he could control the minds of men and stop any potential rebellions and conflicts before they could take root. 

Neither did Brandon Stark hate Jaime Lannister. Not only because he now knew the truth of Bloodraven’s interference. The actions of that day, so many years ago in Winterfell when Ser Jaime had pushed him from the old tower, were in the past. If the king could feel an emotion, he might have felt grateful to the brash knight. If Jaime Lannister had not pushed him, Bran Stark wouldn’t have travelled beyond the wall; he wouldn’t have become the Three-Eyed Raven.

The king’s mind drifted back to another day three years ago after Jaime Lannister had returned to Winterfell to fight for the living. The knight had searched him out in the godswood to apologize and had attempted to convince the Three-Eyed Raven he was no longer the same man. 

The Three-Eyed Raven knew Ser Jaime honestly believed he had changed. However, Brandon Stark knew better; Jaime Lannister hadn’t changed. He was still recklessly impulsive. The knight never considered his reputation or his own safety, especially when innocent lives were in danger. Jaime Lannister didn’t plan or scheme. He never thought about his actions; he just acted. 

That impulsiveness had led Ser Jaime to kill Mad King Aerys, to protect the smallfolk of King’s Landing. He had pushed Bran from the tower to protect Cersei and their children, who he desperately needed to believe were innocent. That same impulsiveness had led Ser Jaime to garner his sister’s wrath and fulfill his promise to fight for the living. 

No, it wasn’t for revenge that the Three-Eyed Raven had driven Ser Jaime down into the abyss; it was expediency. It wasn’t what Jaime Lannister had done, it was what he might yet do. 

Brandon Stark had believed he ended any potential threat. Ser Jaime had ridden away from Winterfell and the woman he loved, making his way down to King’s Landing to die with his sister. He had died in the crypts under the Red Keep trying to protect his sister, his queen and lover.

Meanwhile, the other part of the Three-Eyed Raven’s plan had been coming to fruition in the skies above King’s Landing. The Dragon Queen, having already ravaged the city, had turned her rage and her dragon on the Red Keep itself. 

Through the eyes of his etheric shadow, the Three-Eyed Raven had witnessed the destruction in the sky. He had also witnessed the chalky stone of the castle collapse on top of the golden Lannister twins. 

Ser Jaime’s last thoughts, before the stones began to fall, were not of his sister, but of sapphire eyes, crying and begging him to stay, far to the north in Winterfell.

Brandon Stark had hoped Jaime Lannister would die slowly; however, that wasn’t to be. The Three-Eyed Raven felt the knight’s mind suddenly cease to exist. Jaime Lannister had died instantly. 

At least Cersei had lingered, her body and mind crushed by the stone of her tomb. The queen took her time to die, slowly bleeding out over the course of several hours, her sobs masked by the crushing stone and debris. The dying queen had first called in vain for her brother Jaime, then her mother, her father and her children. Finally, with her last breath, she had called for Tyrion, begging her brother to save her, begging him for forgiveness.

That should have ended the potential threat the Kingslayer represented. 

Then, a week ago, the unimaginable had happened. Jaime Lannister had roared back to life, just in time to save his brother from the Witch of the Vale. The Three-Eyed Raven hadn’t seen that particular outcome in any of his visions. 

It hadn’t taken long for the Three-Eyed Raven to realize what had happened. The Kingslayer had lost his memory in the collapse of the Red Keep. It was only the persona of Jaime Lannister that had died under the crushing stone, not the man.

The future was hard to predict, as people always bring a random element into the equation. Worse yet, they often do not do what is expected, like returning from the dead. Or they do the total opposite of what is expected, like building a vine-covered wall across the neck. 

People bring chaos and disorder; one small alteration and a myriad of future events could fly off in unknown tangents. Even if he explored all the possible outcomes, someone on the other side of the world might hatch three dragon eggs, and everything would be thrown into chaos. It was best not to look too closely at the future; it was a bottomless pit of endless possibilities. 

The Three-Eyed Raven realized now that it had been a mistake to raise Lysa Arryn. She was more of a random element than most people. It might have been her Andal blood, or her already-fragile hold on reality, but the White Walker had her own agenda and she soon became impossible to control. 

The king had created the witch for one purpose: enthrall enough lost souls to kidnap and kill Tyrion Lannister. However, that didn’t happen. Even in death, Lysa Arryn’s love for her only child had proved stronger than her hatred of the Lannisters. Obsessed beyond all reason, she had raised an army and used it to terrorize the smallfolk of the Vale in a perplexing search for her son.

Than, when she had finally managed to capture Lord Tyrion, it was only because the Hand of the King happened to be in the same place as Robyn Arryn. Even more unbelievable, instead of immediately killing him, she had inconceivably put Tyrion Lannister on trial. 

Lysa Arryn had both the Lannister brothers in her grasp and had let them slip through her cold, decaying fingers. If Robyn Arryn hadn’t already dispatched the White Walker that was once Lysa Arryn, the king would have done so himself. 

The Three-Eyed Raven had no choice but to resume his spectral assault on the Kingslayer. However, Jaime Lannister was now wise to the Raven King’s shadowy attacks and tried to resist his whispers. The Three-Eyed Raven was forced to double his efforts, quickly driving the knight to the brink of insanity. The strain had only accelerated the Decay.

It had been working, too. Then suddenly the Three-Eyed Raven could no longer feel the mind of the Kingslayer. He couldn’t feel Brienne or Tyrion’s minds either; they had all disappeared from the ether.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are love <3


	5. The Maiden of the Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am hoping to update this story three times a week, on Saturday, Mondays, Wednesdays or Thursdays. i would have done so this week but I was sick on Wed. and Thurs. 
> 
> Thank to Sea-spirit for proof reading.

Chapter Five  
The Maiden of the Tree

“You admire him?” Jaime hissed, the biting tone of his voice dark and gravely. “Did you fuck him, too?”

Brienne pressed her lips together, an angry scowl tugging at her mouth. There were so many things she could have said, each more biting than the last. But she held her tongue, refusing to speak in haste. If she answered his vile question now, she would likely say something both she and Jaime would later regret. Jaime, at present, had that ground covered, having already said much he would regret later. 

Rising up to her full height, Brienne scowled down at the angry lion before turning and stomping off into the forest. 

Brienne knew her admiration for Ser Hugh bothered Jaime. She had tried to avoid the topic of the knight for that very reason. Jaime, on the other hand, was adamant on travelling down that path, bringing up Ser Hugh Beringar at every opportunity, insistent on tossing out cruel jabs and ridiculous accusations. 

She also knew Jaime was frustrated over the disappearance of his sons. They were all worried about Arik and Kaylan. That did not excuse Jaime’s wicked words; she was tired of his vile moods and outbursts of jealousy. 

It was frustrating that they still hadn’t found any sign of Podrick’s trail, but it wasn’t all that surprising. Brienne knew her former squire wouldn’t have left their hiding place in the ravine unless he and Jaime’s children were in danger. The young knight was likely taking precautions and covering his tracks. 

-o0o-

They had already ridden north for three days, leaving the foothills of the Mountains of the Moon behind. The distant mountain range had slowly diminished in size, until only a faded, jagged pale blue line appeared on the horizon. The only rest they allowed themselves was when they stopped to water and feed the horses. Only then would they sleep for a short while or eat a cold meal of dried meat and stale bread, before continuing their search. It wasn’t surprising that nerves were frayed and tempers high. They were all exhausted. 

Night had already fallen when they came across the small henge circling the gnarled stump of an ancient weirwood tree. The prehistoric site, hidden deep in the forest, was overgrown with brush and smaller trees. The tall standing sarsens of the henge would provide an excellent break for the wind; it was a perfect site to camp for the night. 

As much as Jaime had wanted to continue searching for Podrick and his sons, he knew he and his companions were exhausted. Tyrion especially wasn’t used to riding for such long periods without stopping. Although Tyrion had tried to hide it, Jaime could plainly see the pain written across his brother’s face. 

They lit a small fire near the base of one of the ancient monoliths and settled down for their first warm meal in three days. It was then that the argument had started. Jaime had said something cutting and cruel about Ser Hugh. Brienne had stood up for the knight’s honor, which had only infuriated Jaime. 

Tyrion could only watch in horror as the argument grew more and more heated, until finally Brienne had enough of Jaime’s nonsense and stomped into the forest.

“You are an idiot,” Tyrion said dryly, looking across the small campfire at his brother.

Jaime grunted and looked away, refusing to meet Tyrion’s accusing gaze.

“We thought you were dead, Jaime,” Tyrion continued, not letting his brother off the hook so easily. “For three years, Brienne grieved your death. I grieved your death. If you had really died under the Red Keep, would you have wanted her to be alone forever?”

“No, of course not,” Jaime replied in a huff, throwing another stick into the fire. “But I’m not dead and she still–”

“She still has feelings for, and admires, an honorable knight,” Tyrion finished his thought. “People can’t just turn off their feelings, Jaime.”

“We don’t get to choose who we love,” Jaime mumbled under his breath.

Tyrion looked up at his brother, not understanding the history behind that remark. “Who said anything about love? She only danced with the man once, at Robyn Arryn’s Grand Ball.” 

“She danced with him?!” Jaime raged anew.

“You really are an idiot,” Tyrion scoffed, before burying his nose in the ancient book the old monk had given him. After a few minutes, Tyrion looked up to see his brother still hadn’t moved. “Before you destroy the best thing that ever happened to you, I would suggest you go find your lady and apologize.”

At first, Jaime stubbornly refused to budge as he watched the flames dance around the campfire. Finally, he threw his head back and groaned, tossing another stick into the fire before standing and following the path Brienne had taken into the forest. 

Jaime had travelled for a distance before coming across the small clearing. He looked around, trying to find evidence of Brienne’s passage. 

“Do I need to slap you in your stupid face again?” Brienne’s angry voice drifted down from above.

Looking up, Jaime saw her sitting on a branch halfway up a large oak tree, her long legs dangling in the air between them. 

“Brienne, come down. We need to–”

“We need to what?!” she hissed, shaking her head. “No, I think I will stay right here. It’s you who needs to go!”

“Brienne, come down,” Jaime pleaded, reaching up and gently pulling on her foot. He didn’t fail to notice the runes on her amulet were blazing bright red. 

“Piss off,” Brienne growled, kicking away his hand.

Jaime was grateful for the metal hook as he hoisted himself up to join her on the thick oak branch; he would never have been able to climb the tree with his golden hand.

“Well?” Brienne asked, crossing her arms in front of her chest and glaring at him as he settled on the branch next to her.

“What I said, it was unworthy.”

“I didn’t sleep with Ser Hugh, but I won’t deny I admire and respect him as a knight.” 

“My words were said in frustration.” 

“Fuck off,” Brienne said, her voice deep and angry.

Jaime reached for her, only to have his hand slapped aside. “Brienne, please, I’m trying to say I’m sorry.”

Brienne signed and turned to face him. “Jaime, I know you are worried and frustrated about Kaylan and Arik. We all are.”

“It’s not just that, it’s–”

“You’re jealous.” 

Jaime could only nod in agreement.

Brienne shook her head and hissed, “You were jealous of Tormund Giantsbane and never acted like such an ass.”

“Tormund Giantsbane is an uncultured brute, unworthy of you,” Jaime scoffed.

Shocked, Brienne asked in amazement, “And you believe Ser Hugh is worthy of me?” 

“He is young, handsome and honorable, the knight of your dreams.”

“No, he’s not, Jaime,” Brienne’s voice cracked, “because he isn’t you.”

They sat in silence, looking up into the night sky. When Jaime heard her breath hitch, he knew Brienne was crying. His heart shattered, realizing he was once again the cause of her tears. Tentatively, he reached for her hand, but Brienne pulled away as if his touch was poison.

“Three years, Jaime!” Brienne sobbed, her tears rolling down her face unabated. “You left! And I thought you were dead for three years.”

“I know,” Jaime replied, reaching to wipe the tears from her face. 

Brienne scowled and pushed his hand away. 

“If I had died,” he continued looking down at his rejected hand, “I would have wanted you to move on, and as loath as I am to say it, Ser Hugh is everything I would have hoped for you.”

“What?” Brienne sniffed. “If you approve of him, why are you so scornful of his honor?”

“I don’t want to–” Jaime started, running a hand through his hair, before finally saying, “I can’t lose you again.”

Brienne reached over and cupped Jaime’s face, gently running her thumbs across his cheeks. Looking deep into his emerald eyes, she exhaled and said, “You won’t.”

“So, am I forgiven?” 

“No, I’m still mad at you,” Brienne hissed, pulling her hands away and turning her back to him, suddenly finding the trunk of the large oak tree much more interesting than the jealous knight. 

“I love you,” Jaime said as he nudged her shoulder. “I knew it the first moment I met you. I’m just sorry it took so long for my mind and heart to learn to communicate.”

“And I love you, but you are an ass sometimes. Most of the time,” Brienne said stubbornly.

Running his fingers down Brienne’s neck, Jaime reached around her shoulder and tapped her amulet, which was no longer red. The runes had faded back to purple. When Brienne turned, he blinked once and gazed at her with sorrowful emerald eyes. “What happened to purple runes meaning forgiveness?” 

“Being handsome and adorable will not help your cause,” Brienne huffed, turning away and once again studying the tree.

“You think I’m handsome and adorable?” Jaime hummed smugly against her neck.

Brienne shook her head. “No, you think you are handsome and adorable. I think you’re an ass.”

Wrapping his arms around Brienne’s waist, Jaime pressed against her back, laying his chin on her shoulder. _So what if she danced with Ser Hugh at some Grand Ball? he thought. That was the past and all that matters is the here and now. _

Jaime thought about the ball; he had been at Bloody Gate during the Tournament of the Vale and remembered the night of the Grand Ball, although he had not been invited. At the time he still believed he was Braeden, a simple farmer, and smallfolk were not welcome to dance alongside the high-born nobles of the land. 

On that night so many weeks ago, Jaime-Braeden couldn’t sleep, so he had decided to go for a long walk around the village that hugged the walls of the Bloody Gate. That was when he noticed the high-born lady on a white horse charging way too fast across the tournament grounds. 

“It was you!” Jaime gasped suddenly. 

Confused, Brienne replied, “What was me?”

“What happened at the Grand Ball?” The tone of Jaime’s voice grew dark and angry. His eyes flashed, and the amulet around his neck glowed rich scarlet. 

Brienne inhaled deeply and moaned, “Jaime, I don’t want to fight anymore.”

Jaime ignored her and continued, “I remember that night...the night the horse threw the high-born lady…she had been crying and her gown was ripped. It was you!”

“It’s not what you think,” Brienne said, turning around to face him.

“Who hurt you?” Jaime growled and gripped her arm. “Was it Hunt? Beringar? I will kill any man who–”

Brienne shook her head. “They didn’t hurt me.”

“Then who was it? Who hurt you?” 

“It was you, Jaime!” Brienne shouted and pulled her arm free from his grasp.

Shocked by her outburst, Jaime asked, “Me? I wasn’t…how?”

Brienne choked back a sob and said, “The Grand Ball was like a dream. The music, the dancing, the ladies in beautiful gowns and the knights in fine raiment. At first I was enjoying myself. The great hall was so beautiful. My gown was beautiful. Two handsome knights wanted to dance with me, and it wasn’t because of some cruel jest or because they felt sorry for the ugly maid. They saw me, who I really was, and yet still wanted me.” 

Jaime kept his face calm, even though once again jealousy silently raged through his veins. He nodded for her to continue. 

“I felt guilty for betraying your memory.”

“Brienne,” Jaime said, the anger suddenly gone, running his knuckles along her chin. “Being happy was not a betrayal of my memory.” 

Brienne looked down and sniffed softly. “Then I remembered we…you and I, had never danced.”

“Never?” 

“No,” Brienne replied, shaking her head before looking up so their eyes met. “I so wished we had danced, just once.”

“Is that all?” Jaime said, jumping from the branch. His golden skin glowed in the moonlight as he gazed up at her, beckoning for her to follow. “May I have this dance, my lady?

“Jaime,” Brienne scoffed down at him. “There is no music.”

“Isn’t there?” Jaime laughed, laying his hook across his stomach and raising his hand in the air. He began singing an old melody as he spun around pretending to dance with an invisible partner. 

“My featherbed is deep and soft,  
and there I'll lay you down…”

“Jaime, you look ridiculous!” Brienne gasped, covering her mouth with her hand to hide the smile creeping across her lips. 

“…And how she smiled and how she laughed,  
the maiden of the tree...”

“Jaime, stop!” Brienne hissed down at him.

Jaime didn’t stop; spinning around again, he looked up at her and hummed, “Not until you come down here and dance with me, my maiden of the tree.”

Rolling her eyes, Brienne jumped down and waited as Jaime danced over to her. Pulling her into his arms, he continuing to whisper the familiar old melody into her hair.

-o0o-

The flickering light of the campfire illuminated the henge in a golden glow as Jaime and Brienne walked hand in hand toward the circle of stones. Jaime could almost imagine the Children of the Forest, dancing around the giant heart tree, which had once stood in the center of the ring, their small bodies weaving between the large standing stones.

History had been cruel to the little henge. Its heart, the giant weirwood tree, had doubtlessly been cut down centuries ago during the Andal invasion. All that was left of the Grandfather Tree was a weathered stump, gradually fading back into the soil from which it was born. Many of the sandstone sarsens that circled the forgotten tree were cracked and covered in vines that clawed and pulled on the giant blocks of stone. Some of the ancient monoliths had even toppled over and lay scattered around the site. 

They heard voices as they approached, and Jaime suddenly remembered he had left Tyrion alone and unprotected. Jaime and Brienne both drew their swords and hurried to the henge. The first thing Jaime noticed as he and Brienne sprinted into the campsite was that his brother was definitely no longer alone. Tyrion was sitting on one of the toppled sarsens, talking with the ugliest creature Jaime had ever seen. 

“Is that a woman?” Jaime said, agape.

When he heard Brienne’s angry snort, Jaime remembered that it was the exact same question he asked the first time he had seen her. Brienne had stood towering behind Lady Stark, tall and awkward, any part of her that was slightly feminine hidden under layers of leather and heavy plate. He could be forgiven for his confusion, and he had only questioned her gender, not her humanity. Jamie wasn’t quite sure if the strange newcomer who sat hunched next to his brother was actually human. 

The woman was ancient; her pale translucent skin was almost white and deeply wrinkled, the texture and hue of the bark off the nearby weirwood tree. Blood-red eyes turned to gaze up at Jaime and Brienne. If the old woman had heard Jaime’s snide comment, she made no indication. The woman’s hair was long and white, tied up behind her head in a messy knot. Wrapping around her smallish frame, she wore a faded blue smallfolk’s dress, stained and tatty, covered by a long grey wrap, more rag than cloak. 

Sliding off the large stone, Tyrion motioned to Jaime and Brienne. As they approached, Tyrion raised one eyebrow sharply, looking up at his brother and chuckling. “I see everything has worked its way out.” 

Brienne felt the heat rising to her face.

“Mi’lord hadn’t said ye travelled with spriggans,” the old woman cackled as her ember-hued eyes travelled up the length of Jaime and Brienne’s tall frames. Lifting a gnarled hand, she gestured for Tyrion to help her down from her perch on top of the ancient stone. 

Tyrion reached up to steady the old woman as she climbed down from the monolith. “Jaime, Brienne, meet Gullveig of High Heart,” Tyrion said, introducing the ancient woman. 

Jaime hadn’t noticed while Gullveig and Tyrion were both seated, but now that they stood abreast, he was surprised to note Tyrion was almost a head taller than the ancient woman. Gullveig could rightly be described as miniscule. 

Using a gnarled black cane, the diminutive woman hobbled toward Jaime and Brienne. After coming to a shaky stop, Gullveig looked up at Jaime and grinned wickedly; she had very few teeth remaining in her withered mouth. Nonetheless, Jaime felt very much like a mouse being observed by a cat. 

Whacking Jaime’s shin with her cane, she announced, “Aye, they be tall as trees and no doubt as dense.”

“Tall person jokes,” Jaime heard his brother chuckle.

The old woman turned her blood-red eyes toward Brienne and smiled warmly. “And tis the maiden o’ the tree.”

Brienne blushed anew and glanced at Jaime, who smiled back at her tenderly. She felt his hand slip into her own and gently squeeze her fingers. 

Looking down at the tiny woman, Brienne said, “You are rather far from home Gullveig. What brings you to the Vale?”

Gullveig limped to the weirwood remnant and reverently laid her hand on the gnarled old stump. “I travel here and there, to honor the Old Ones. So they know they are not forgotten.”

“I hadn’t realized many people south of the Neck still worshipped the Old Gods,” Brienne said.

“Aye,” Gullveig closed her eyes and exhaled an exaggerated sigh. “Like I, the Old Gods linger in places such as these, withered and dry, not quite alive, but not yet dead. They remember when the new gods came from across the sea to cut and burn. Like broken tomes in amber hues, they are not whole. For the seven who are one, are not whole. They left one behind in ancient Andalos. The monk of shadows knows, although he will not tell.” The old woman turned and hissed. “Go on. Ask him! He will not say.”

Ambling to the fire, Gullveig settled down uninvited and clasped her hands together on her lap. Looking up at them expectantly, she announced, “Tomorrow I shall go. But for the price of a warm meal and some of your wine, I will give my bodements and answer your questions.”

“What questions could we possibly ask of you?” Jaime asked as he sat down across from the old woman. Tyrion and Brienne soon joined them next to the fire.

“Tis for a young knight you search,” Gullveig replied as she took the offered bowl of stew from Brienne. Then, turning back to Jaime, she said, “And sons who are not of your blood. But loved they are.”

Jaime turned a questioning eye toward his brother, wondering what Tyrion had already told the old woman. 

“I haven’t told her anything,” Tyrion said, shaking his head. 

“Who are you?” Jaime asked the woman. “What are you?”

Gullveig replied with a nearly toothless cackle. “Some would name me the Ghost of High Heart, others would name me Fey, for I dream of what was and what might still be.” She waved her gnarled hand in front of her face. “But as mi’lord can plainly see, I am neither ghost nor fairy.” 

Jaime wasn’t so sure about that last statement. There was definitely something otherworldly and fairy-like about the diminutive old woman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are Love!!


	6. The Ghost of High Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very special thanks to Sea_spirit for beta'ing this fic.
> 
> Updates-Monday, Wednesday or Thursday and Saturday.

Chapter Six  
The Ghost of High Heart

“What do you know about the whereabouts of my sons?” Jaime asked the old woman sitting across the fire, who claimed to be the Ghost of High Heart. 

The diminutive old woman closed her eyes, pushing her withered lips forward in an extended exhale, her thin white brows knitting together. After what seemed like an eternity, Gullveig opened her red-tinted eyes, which glowed like fiery embers. 

“I dreamt of three lion cubs, bright and golden. One did hiss and snarl, another purred, the third mewed for her father,” Gullveig croaked in a raspy voice. “Dead they were, dead for many long years, and never having known a father’s love.” 

Jaime felt Brienne’s arm wrap around his waist. Leaning into her, he was grateful for Brienne’s warm presence. The three golden lion cubs could only be Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella, the children Jaime had sired but was never allowed to love. 

Although Jaime still mourned the death of his and Cersei’s children, it was about the fate of two very different children that he now worried. He hadn’t sired them, but he was still Arik and Kaylan’s father. 

“I dreamt of two lion cubs, lions who are not lions. But neither are they sheep,” the old woman continued, her voice thick as she spoke between bits of stew. “They hide from the raven king and weep for their papa as the knight of song shepherds them north.”

“Are my sons safe?” Jaime asked, leaning toward the old woman.

“For now, mi’lord of lions,” the Ghost of High Heart nodded in reply. “Although the road they travel has many crossroads. They must choose wisely, for one path leads to grief and sorrow, another to a realm protected, and the third path leads to a wolf who stinks of death. The last path is the most vile, the worst of all paths, leading into the shadow that cloaks the Stranger. Which will they choose?” 

“What does that even mean?” Jaime stood suddenly and growled down at the old woman. “Where are my sons now?”

“I know not,” Gullveig hissed in return, not intimidated by the tall knight’s snarls. “The Old Ones are covetous and do not always share all of which they know.”

Jaime and the old woman glared at each other from across the fire for several minutes, neither of them willing to be the first to look away. Finally Tyrion coughed and broke the spell, motioning for his brother to sit down.

“What else have you dreamt?” Tyrion asked, diluting the tension.

Gullveig’s ember eyes fell on Tyrion and she said slowly, “I dreamt of a queen, both just and fair, with silver threads weaving through her flaxen hair. And two great raptors, crafty and vile, they believed falsely they were so deep, clever and wise,” the diminutive woman croaked, taking a long drink from the wine skin, the amber liquid spilling down her chin. “They didn’t know the queen’s true story, so in their blood-soaked talons they snatched her crown and cast her down. The raptors then sold the queen’s crown for false fame and what little gold they could get. But we know the truth of it–we know. I know, I do–for even four stout walls cannot hide the truth from my dreaming.”

“Daenerys,” Tyrion gasped, his eyes glowing with unshed tears. He was meant to believe in Daenerys and her dream of a fair and just society. Her only desire was a world where every child, whether born in a great castle or the slums of Flea Bottom, could live and thrive in a world without fear. When his queen had needed him the most, Tyrion had abandoned Daenerys to her demons. 

The Ghost of High Heart waved a gnarled hand at Tyrion, gesturing for him to once again help her stand. “I shall sleep with the Old Ones tonight,” Gullveig announced, motioning toward the ancient weirwood stump. Turning to Jaime, she added, “Maybe they will choose to share more of what only they can know.”

Jaime nodded to the old woman, but didn’t reply.

Patting Tyrion’s hand, Gullveig winked at him before hobbling over to the weathered stump of the heart tree. Laying down and using her old weathered cloak as a blanket, Gullveig rested her head on one of the ancient tree’s deep roots. It wasn’t long before the old woman was fast asleep; every so often she would mumble and snort in her sleep.

“Do you believe her?” Jaime whispered, motioning toward the sleeping woman. “Do you think she can really see all that she claims?”

Tyrion considered the question before he replied, “I don’t think we should dismiss her out of hand. With everything we have seen in the last decade, can you honestly say visions and prophecies are not possible?”

Brienne shook her head, not quite sure. “As a child, my father would tell me stories of the Ghost of High Heart. I can’t see how Gullveig could be the same woman. The tales were old when my grandfather was a child.”

“Maybe it’s an honorific, like the Three-Eyed Raven,” suggested Tyrion.

“I don’t think it is,” Jaime said, shaking his head. “I think she’s just that old.”

“Whatever she is, or isn’t, she didn’t really tell us anything we didn’t already know.” Tyrion turned to look at Jaime and attempted to smile assuredly. “We already knew young Pod would ride north, and that is where we should continue our search for him and your sons.”

“I agree.” Brienne nodded and reached out and laid her hand on Jaime’s shoulder. “We might still be able to catch up with them.”

Tyrion looked over at the sleeping woman and said, “Still, I would be interested in hearing what she has to say on the morrow.”

A loud snort interrupted their conversation; startled, they turned to look at Gullveig. She groaned in her sleep and rolled onto her back; soon, noisy snores were vibrating off the tall sarsens.

“How can such a loud noise come out of such a tiny person?” Jaime asked, in awe of the sounds emanating from the miniscule woman.

Chuckling, Tyrion said, “I would have hoped you’d know by now not to underestimate the very small.” 

-o0o-

As the morning sun rose, glossy and bright over the small henge, Brienne, who had sat the last watch, stirred the pot containing last night’s leftover stew. She watched as Gullveig hobbled around the gnarled stump of the weirwood tree. The old woman sprinkled sage and sweetgrass onto the ancient tree’s stump, as well as onto its deep roots, before she began to chant the soft words of some ancient and forgotten tongue.

“Whatever is she doing?” Jaime asked as he sat down next to Brienne and nodded toward the old woman. 

Brienne shrugged and glanced over at Gullveig. “She’s been at it for hours.”

They were soon joined by Tyrion, who looked ruffled but well rested. They ate quietly as Gullveig continued her ritual. 

Finally, the old woman’s voice cracked and she ceased her rhythmic chanting. Limping toward them, Gullveig let her eyes fall on the pot of stew simmering over the small fire. As the old woman settled down next to Tyrion, she licked her lips and stared at Brienne expectantly until she was handed a bowl of the reheated stew. 

“To the Old Ones, I have sung the songs of the earth,” Gullveig announced as she spooned the stew into her nearly toothless mouth. “I shall be leaving soon.”

“Did the Old Ones whisper any more secrets into your ear last night?” Tyrion asked expectantly.

“Oh, aye,” the old woman nodded and shoved another spoonful of stew into her mouth.

Tyrion growled internally; it was too early in the morning for guessing games. He stilled his temper before smiling charmingly at the old woman. “Well, what did you see?” 

The Ghost of High Heart scraped the remaining stew into her mouth and set down the bowl before replying in a strangely lithe voice, “I dreamt of a raven, maimed by a lion. His only desire is order, no matter the cost.” The small woman reached for the skin of wine and drank deeply before continuing. “But a broken bird must be caged, for ravens are not meant to rule.”

With that said, the old woman slapped her hands on her knees and reached for Tyrion to once again help her to her feet. “And know I must be gone. I needs must continue my pilgrimage. There are many Old Ones waiting to hear my songs.”

Brienne and Jaime stood as Tyrion helped the tiny woman to her feet.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Gullveig,” Tyrion smiled down at the old woman.

“And you, mi’lord. It was enjoyable not to strain my poor old neck to look onto a handsome man’s face,” Gullveig replied, patting Tyrion’s cheek. Turning her ember eyes to leer at Jaime, she chuckled. “As intriguing as it is, the only view of a man I often am confronted with is his crotch.”

Jaime coughed and edged over to stand behind Brienne, hiding from the old woman’s red lingering eyes. “I feel strangely violated,” he whispered in Brienne’s ear.

“Before I go, there is just one boon I would ask of you, mi’lord,” the old woman said, turning her head to look up at Tyrion.

“Anything,” Tyrion said with a nod.

Gullvieg smiled a nearly toothless grin and said, “One kiss from the handsome lion of the west.”

Tyrion’s mouth gaped open, and he stared at the old woman with a startled expression written across his face. 

Gullveig chuckled. “Come now, I am not so hideous and uncultured. I once stood amongst princes and kings, lovely princesses and grand queens.”

“Of course not,” Tyrion said as he bowed and lifted her small hand to his lips. 

“Oh, dearest me,” the old woman chuckled, raising a gnarled hand to her mouth. “If only I was a thousand years younger.”

Tyrion smiled down at the tiny woman. “Surely not, my lady,” he said, still holding her hand. Then he leaned down and lightly placed a chaste kiss on her cheek.

The old woman smiled broadly and patted Tyrion’s face once again. Her voice dropped to a whisper, “There was one thing more the Old Ones wished only you know.”

“What is it, my lady?” Tyrion asked curiously. 

Gullveig turned her fire-tinted gaze up to look into Tyrion’s mismatched eyes and whispered, “The answer to a question, once asked and never answered.”

Tyrion asked, “What is this answer?" 

The old woman replied, “Yi Ti.” 

Tyrion certainly hadn’t expected that answer. The Golden Empire of Yi Ti was on the other side of the world, on the northeastern side of the Jade Sea. The legendary empire was fabled to be incredibly old and equally as wealthy. If there was any place more distant and remote from Westeros, it was the fabled Empire of Yi Ti.

“Yi Ti?” Confused,Tyrion asked, “If Yi Ti is the answer, what was the question?”

“I know not the question,” Gullveig replied, waving her gnarled hand in the air. “Only the answer.”

“Which is just Yi Ti?” Tyrion repeated, tapping his finger against his chin.

The Ghost of High Heart nodded once and clasped Tyrion’s hand before turning and silently disappearing into the dense forest. 

Tyrion heard the light crunching of boots on grass as Jaime and Brienne walked up behind him. 

“You two looked so sweet together,” Jaime scoffed, grinning down at his brother.

“You’re just jealous she found me more attractive than you,” Tyrion replied to the smirk on his brother’s face.

Jaime chuckled. Raising an eyebrow, he said in a mocking voice, “Do I sense a love match?”

Tyrion shook his head, glancing up at Brienne for a moment before turning back to Jaime and replying smugly, “No, brother. Much like you, I enjoy a good climb.”

Brienne crossed her arms in front of her chest and glared at both Jaime and Tyrion. She wasn’t quite sure what the reference to climbing meant, but knowing the Lannister brothers as she did, she was sure it was something inappropriate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are Love


	7. The Decay

Chapter Seven  
The Decay

Ageless, eternal, beyond time itself: as the Three-Eyed Raven, Brandon Stark was theoretically immortal. If he was willing to entomb himself inside a weirwood tree, he could continue to thrive for centuries before the Decay spread through his body and he needed to train another host. Even if there had still been weirwood trees in King’s Landing, Brandon Stark wasn’t willing to go to that extreme. There was, however, another option, which would extend his life and delay the inevitable search for a new host.

Unlike his body, the Raven King’s mind was truly eternal; when the broken body of Brandon Stark finally died, he would transfer his ego and memories, his very soul, into a new host. Like Bloodraven had transferred his soul into Bran Stark. Like a thousand Three-Eyed Ravens had done in the past, reaching back in time to a distant age the world had long since forgotten. 

Brandon Stark shared the souls and collective memories of all the previous Three-Eyed Ravens. It was true the more distant the memory, the more murky and disjointed it seemed. The minds and remembrances of the ancient greenseers of the Children of the Forest, who once hosted the persona of the Three-Eyed Raven-, were too mysterious and foreign to fully comprehend. Most of the memories of those long-forgotten forest spirits, as well as their understanding of elemental magic, was lost to the vastness of time. 

The Children of the Forest had once known how to twist and bend the earth’s elements to their will. To protect their realm from further invasion by the First Men, they had destroyed the Arm of Dorne. They sacrificed many of their greatest greenseers to the Decay when they called forth the Hammer of Waters, a torrent of sea water that washed away the land bridge that connected the continents of Westeros and Essos. If he had that power, the Raven King would rip apart the Mountains of the Moon and shake the Lannister brothers and their collaborators from their hiding places. 

Yes, innocent people in the Vale would assuredly die, but the deaths of the few were a small price to pay when he considered the suffering and loss of life an endless chain of wars would inflict on the smallfolk of the realm. It was a king’s duty to protect, and the Raven King would protect the people, no matter the cost, from all of the future wars that might someday threaten the realm. 

To protect the realm, he had to rip out any threat to his reign, root and stem. Several of those potential threats were still in the wind. The king still couldn’t find the minds of Brienne, Tyrion or the Kingslayer. It was still a possibility they were dead. However, the Three-Eyed Raven would not be fooled again; he would need to see their severed heads before he believed the Lannister brothers truly dead. 

At least the Raven King could understand the motives of the Lannister brothers. Like Lannisters had always done, they were only trying to protect what remained of their house and family. However, they were not the only potential threat to the Raven King’s reign. Brandon Stark’s sister was proving to be a dangerous and crafty adversary. 

He just couldn’t understand his sister’s motives. _Hadn’t Sansa suffered more than most during the wars? Doesn’t she understand what I am trying to accomplish? _If the Raven King could feel betrayed, Sansa’s betrayal would have hurt the most.

The events in the northern Riverlands had come to an impasse. Even though his master of War, Ser Addam Marbrand, had managed to recapture the Twins’ western castle, the forces of Sansa and Meera Reed had tenaciously held onto the eastern castle. 

Over the course of the last six months, the Crannogmen’s leaf and vine-encrusted wall had spread across the Neck and down into the northern Riverlands. The thick vine-covered wall now grew on the east banks of the Green Fork. After the living wall had reached the Twins, it had encased the fortifications and gates of the eastern stronghold in a leafy blanket. The entire length of the wall was infused with a powerful magical ward, which kept the Three-Eyed Raven’s etheric shadow from passing into the North.

Neither iron nor steel nor fire did any damage against the living wall. Worse yet, when the king’s men-at-arms began to hack and slash at the barrier, the wall responded violently. Thick vines lashed out, dragging the hapless soldiers into its depths and adding their corpses to its dark mass. 

A knock on the door of his solar drew the Raven King’s mind away from his troubled musings. He knew the identity of the visitor; the leader of his hunters, Ser Ruban of House Chelsted, had returned from the Isle of Faces. Returned empty-handed. 

The Raven King lifted a weak arm and motioned to his kingsguard, Ser Grennan. His dry voice cracked as he said, “Let Ser Ruban in, and please find Grandmaester Tarly.” 

“At once, Your Grace,” Ser Grennan bowed and opened the door, motioning the hunter inside before hurrying away to find the grandmaester. 

“Your Grace,” Ser Ruban said nervously and bowed low. The Three-Eyed Raven always seemed to have a disconcerting effect on people.

“Well?” the Three-Eyed Raven asked, although he already knew the answer. “What did the Order of the Green Men have to say?”

“My men waited for days.” Chelsted’s eyes fell to the floor as he shook his head. “When one finally did appear, he claimed to have no weirwood seeds.”

“He was lying,” the king replied drearily. 

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“You know what must be done.”

“Your Grace?” The Knight shuddered, his voice dropping to throaty whisper. “The Pact forbids an attack against the Isle of Faces and the Green Men. No king since the Andal invasion has violated the ancient treaty between the Children of the Forest and the First Men. Not even the Targaryen kings were so bold.”

The Raven King turned dead eyes up at the knight. Ser Ruban wasn’t much to look at: stocky with broad shoulders, a barrel chest and heavy legs, his thin blond hair barely covering the top of his thick square head. The knight would be fat if his lifestyle was less active. Like all his hunters, Ser Ruban wore the king’s colors, dark chainmail under a black surcoat. The king’s black raven on a blood-red blazon was embellished in the center. The mace-and-dagger of House Chelsted had been relegated to a small embossed sigil on one of the knight’s gauntlets, a small concession the king had made to the noble houses of the realm. 

“Your family,” the king said, motioning to the embossed sigil on his leather gauntlet and pausing a moment for sinister effect.

“Your Grace?” The knight answered, his hand automatically covering the small blazon as sweat pooled around his neck. It wouldn’t be the first time his family had suffered because of a king’s dissatisfaction. His grandfather, Qarlton Chelsted, was the Hand of the King under Aerys Targaryen and had burned alive for disagreeing with the Mad King.

“They are of Andal descent, are they not?” 

Ser Ruban exhaled between tightly clenched teeth and nodded. The king appeared to be only making conversation until Grandmaester Tarly arrived. 

A moment later a light knock on the door announced the arrival of said grandmaester.

“Grandmaester Tarly…Sam.” The king turned his dull eyes to Sam and Ser Grennan as the chubby grandmaester shuffled into the king’s solar carrying a heavy satchel of potions and medical equipment. “Tell me, how many noble families in the realm have blood of the First Men?”

“Only a very few, Your Grace, mostly in the North,” Tarly answered knowingly. “Although the Great Houses have interbred for centuries, and even the Northern houses share some amount of Andal blood.” 

The king nodded and continued in a dull disinterested tone, “My own family, who takes great pride in descending from the First Men, has more Andal blood in their veins then they will likely ever care to admit.”

“There are, however, many smallfolk in both the Six Kingdoms and the North who can claim sole descendancy from the First Men,” Samwell added.

“Mountain rabble,” Chelsted scoffed before remembering his place and clamping his mouth shut.

Grandmaester Tarly eyed the knight disapprovingly and replied, “Yes, the mountain tribes of the Vale as well as many smallfolk in the more isolated regions in all Six Kingdoms and the North.” Tarly lumbered to the hearth and lowered his ample frame down into a comfortable chair before adding, “And of course the Wildlings north of the Wall are all descendants of the First Men.”

“That is not entirely true,” the king said in a lifeless voice. “The Night’s Watch has existed for centuries. The majority of rangers, having arrived as criminals from the larger cities in the south, took Wildling women as mistresses. There is more Andal blood coursing through the veins of the Wildlings than you would expect.”

“I didn’t know that,” Sam said curiously. He was always interested in finding out new and fascinating facts. 

The king continued, “Have you never wondered why the Night King chose Craster’s sons as hosts for his White Walkers?”

“Craster was a vile man,” the usually calm Samwell Tarley growled. “And more than willing to sacrifice his children to that monster.”

“Yes, but that is only one reason. Craster had no Andal blood, and his daughter-wives had no Andal blood. As a result, neither did his sons. The Night King needed pure descendants of the First Men to create stable White Walkers.” 

The Three-Eyed Raven’s mind turned to Lysa Arryn. She had followed her own agenda because the Andal blood in her veins made her not only unstable but also uncontrollable.

“Both the Night King and the Three-Eyed Raven were created by the Children of the Forest with the blood of the First Men, and only someone descended from them can fully contain that magical energy.” 

“Excuse me, Your Grace, but why are we discussing this?” the grandmaester asked. 

“The Children of the Forest are gone.” The king seemingly ignoring his grandmaester’s question as he continued. “I was there when the last of their race died protecting myself and Meera Reed from a swarm of wights.”

“Your Grace, are not the Crannogmen and the Green Men both descended from the Children of the Forest?” Samwell asked.

“They are but pale imitations of their ancestors, and none of the Great Houses, even my own, where the blood of the First Men remains strong, can claim full descent.” The king paused for a moment before continuing, “Can you tell me, why do we continue to honor an agreement made by two races that, for all intents and purposes, no longer exist?”

The grandmaester fidgeted and raised his finger, opening and closing his mouth several times trying to voice a reasonable response before he shrugged and shook his head.

“The Order of Green Men have stood apart from the realm for far too long,” the Raven King replied monotonously. “If they choose not to comply willingly, they will be brought kicking and screaming into the fold.”

Samwell Tarly continued to fidget, finally saying, “Maybe when Lord Tyrion returns, he could negotiate a peaceful solution with the Order of Green Men.” 

Both Ser Ruban and Ser Grennan looked at each other, pressing their lips together and turning away from the grandmaester, unwilling to look the man in the eye.

“Lord Tyrion will not be returning to King’s Landing—not alive, anyway,” the king said dully. “My former Hand, along with Ser Brienne and Ser Podrick, have betrayed the crown and are now seeking asylum in the North.”

“Surely not!” Samwell gasped, shaking his head. “There must be some reasonable explanation.”

“That remains to be seen, when they are found,” the king replied calmly. Turning toward his hunter, he prompted, “Gather your forces and bring me the leader of the Green Men. Whole or just his head is for the Green Men to decide.”

“At once, Your Grace.” The hunter bowed and hurried from the chamber.

“Bran?” Samwell asked timidly. “I don’t think this is a good idea. The Pact has stood for centuries.”

“Sam, do you not trust me?” Bran turned and stared blankly at the plump man. “Are we not friends?”

“Of course we are, but–”

“It was you who discovered the seeds of a weirwood tree could stop the Decay.”

“Perhaps if you refrained from using your abilities, your death may yet be delayed.” 

“You know as much as I, that is not possible.”

“We could send a raven to Jon at Castle Black,” Sam suggested timidly. “There are still weirwood trees north of the Wall. When I was in the Night’s Watch–”

“Sansa has blocked the passages north, and now that Pike has declared for the North, the Greyjoy fleet attack any southern ship that dares pass into northern waters. No, the weirwood trees on the Isle of Faces are our only op–”

The fit came on suddenly. The young monarch’s lungs tightened, causing his voice to crack with angry bursts of rapid coughing. 

The grandmaester hurried to the king’s side, pulling out a wooden funnel from his satchel and placing it against Brandon’s chest. Samwell listened to the king’s lungs as the young monarch continued to painfully gasp for air.

“There is mucus in your lungs,” Sam said, putting the funnel away and pulling out a vial of lungwort and lemon. “Drink all of it, Your Grace. It will relieve the symptoms.”

The king drank the liquid slowly before laying his head against the back of his chair and wheezing painfully as his breathing steadied.

Patting the king’s hand, Samwell said woefully, “My potions are only a temporary fix. The Decay continues to spread. The strain caused by your powers is burning through your body and shutting down your organs. I must insist you take to your bed for a least a day, maybe two. And absolutely no visions.” 

Samwell pushed Brandon’s wheeled chair into the royal bedchamber and helped the young monarch into bed.

When the king still hadn’t replied, Samwell repeated, “I mean it Bran, no visions.”

“This is why it is imperative we recover the weirwood seeds from the Isle of Faces.” Brandon coughed again, and blood spilled from his mouth and ran down his chin. 

“Yes,” Samwell said in a noncommittal voice as he checked the young monarch’s temperature with his hand.

The king coughed again, spitting out bile from his lungs.

“Bran?” Samwell asked as he wiped the phlegm and blood from the king’s mouth. “I have a question.”

Brandon Stark motioned weakly for Sam to continue even as he continued to gasp for air.

“You said the Three-Eyed Raven and the Night King both must have the blood of the First Men. But was not Bloodraven a Targaryen?”

The Three-Eyed Raven swallowed painfully before he turned his head to Samwell and replied, “Brynden Rivers was a noble-born bastard. His father was Aegon IV Targaryen, but his noble mother was a descendent of both the Andals and First Men. However, Bloodraven was chosen as a host not because some of his ancestors were First Men. His predecessor, the Three-Eyed Raven before him, believed his Targaryen blood could prevent the Decay.”

“Did it work? Bloodraven was the Three-Eyed Raven for an awfully long time.”

Bran shook his head and said dully, “The Decay accelerated, and Bloodraven went into the weirwood tree almost immediately after becoming the Three-Eyed Raven.”

Samwell nodded as he rose and blew out the candles before turning to leave. The grandmaester stopped at the door and said again. “No visions.”

“Yes,” Bran responded sleepily, closing his eyes.

After the overbearing grandmaester had left, Bran lay in his bed thinking of the distant past, a headache and a painful cough robbing him of sleep. 

Ten thousand years ago, Brandon’s distant ancestor, Brénainn Ua Starke, had killed the most powerful of the greenseers, the spiritual leaders of the Children of the Forest, and stole the power of the Three-Eyed Raven. The forest spirits had responded by creating the Night King to capture the human Three-Eyed Raven and take back what was stolen, at any cost. 

The cost proved too high when the Night King raised an army of undead and began slaughtering not only the First Men but the forest spirits as well. The Children of the Forest were eventually forced to ally with their former enemies to build the Wall, infusing the giant ice barrier with several magical wards, trapping both the Night King and the Three-Eyed Raven in the far north. The wards prevented the Night King from physically crossing the barrier and Three-Eyed Raven’s etheric shadow from passing into the south to influence the newborn human kingdoms spreading across the continent. 

Over the centuries, Three-Eyed Ravens had tried to break through the Wall, poking at its defenses and testing for weaknesses. Even when they managed to find a fault in the wards, none of the previous Three-Eyed Ravens could completely break through. 

One of Bran’s predecessors had come close, creating the Horn of Winter, which, when blown, would have collapsed the giant Wall. However, before it could be used, the Night King stole the Horn. The Night’s Watch had, in turn, stolen it back from the Night King and hidden the horn where they thought it could never be found.

Then, seventy-five years ago, Bloodraven had arrived at the Wall. While the dragon lord was out on patrol with the rangers, the Three-Eyed Raven had sensed the Targaryen magic coursing through Bloodraven’s veins. 

Brandon had lied when he told Samwell that Bloodraven was chosen because his predecessor believed Targaryen blood might avert the onset of the Decay. That wasn’t entirely true; the real reason was the-Three-Eyed Raven had believed the high magic innate in all Targaryens would be strong enough to break through the ward protecting the Wall.

The Decay, however, had hit Brynden Bloodraven hard, even while his Targaryen blood had made him the most powerful of all the Three-Eyed Ravens. From his prison inside the weirwood tree, Bloodraven had tested the Wall systematically, until finally, almost forty years ago, he had broken through near Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. After ten thousand years, the Three-Eyed Raven’s etheric shadow was finally free to influence the realm of men once more. 

His first victim had been his distant nephew, Aerys II Targaryen. 

At the beginning of his reign, the energetic young king had shown great promise. During the first ten years, he and his equally young Hand, Tywin Lannister, had wrestled control of the Seven Kingdoms from the stale old men of the small council.

The realm was thriving, and the ‘Targaryen Peace’ made travel throughout the realm safe for the first time in generations. It was, for all intents and purposes, a golden age; lords were happy, and the smallfolk were happy and secure. 

It just wouldn’t do. A secure and stable realm could quickly band together and defeat any foe, even one as powerful as the Three-Eyed Raven.

Bloodraven’s etheric shadow began slowly, whispering in the young king’s ear and wearing away at his sanity, preying on Aerys’ vanity and arrogance to drive him down into the abyss.

However, the Three-Eyed Raven was still trapped; if he left the weirwood tree, the Decay would kill him in a matter of days. He needed a new host, preferably one with the blood of both the Targaryen kings and the First Men. He found what he was looking for at the great tournament of Harrenhal. 

It wasn’t hard: Prince Rhaegar was already intrigued by the beauty and wild spirit of Lady Lyanna Stark. The lady was likewise fascinated by the handsome Targaryen prince, although they would never have acted on those feelings, not without the right push. The Three-Eyed Raven had pushed, bringing them together and ensuring his next host would have both the blood of the Targaryen kings and the First Men. 

Everything had fallen into place. The realm was ruled by an unwilling and ineffective king. The child of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen was born and being raised as a bastard in Winterfell. Ostracized by Lady Catelyn, the boy had already decided by the age of twelve to join the Night’s Watch.

Then, without warning, all the Three-Eyed Raven’s carefully laid plans had come to naught. His old adversary, the Night King, had found a new host; some idiot Wildling had wandered too close to the Night King’s resting place. The specter had found a new host and returned with a vengeance, slaughtering Wildlings and the Night’s Watch in a vain attempt to draw the Three-Eyed Raven out from his own hiding place. 

As a member of the Night’s Watch, Jon Snow would probably be dead long before he could assume the mantle of the Three-Eyed Raven. Bloodraven had to find an alternative host.

He found his next host in the person of Brandon Stark. The boy had potential; he was already a powerful greenseer, even though he had yet to discover his gifts. Although he was not of Targaryen descent, the blood of the First Men had remained strong in the Stark dynasty. Bloodraven couldn’t wait for another option; the Targaryens were gone, and the Decay was spreading. He was already dying.

The right whispers in Jaime Lannister’s ear had ensured the boy suffered the injury required to begin the process of becoming the Three-Eyed Raven. It wasn’t even difficult; Ser Jaime would do anything to protect his sister. All the Three-Eyed Raven had needed to do was suggest to the knight that King Robert would execute Cersei and their children if they were discovered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are Love<3


	8. The Knight of Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank for all the Kudos and comments they are always a joy to read. And a special thanks to Sea_Spirit for proof reading this story.

Chapter Eight  
The Knight of Song

The thick dark trunks of the trees soared into the sky; their branches clashed together, clawing and scratching like warriors locked in a fierce battle of dominance. The victor of the mêlée would be the first verdant branch that broke through the forest canopy into the sun’s golden light. 

Hidden deep in the forest, Ser Podrick Payne crouched down between the exposed roots of a large tree hanging over the crest of an eroded earthen mound. Pressing his back against the base of the embankment, the young knight quietly drew his sword. Glancing over at Arik and Kaylan, Podrick pressed his finger to his lips, signaling the boys to be silent. The forest itself appeared to have understood Podrick’s request; the oppressive silence made the air feel heavy and thick. 

The sharp snap of a twig breaking overhead made Podrick’s heart jump, alerting him to the presence of the king’s hunters. Startled, Kaylan gasped loudly, his eyes growing large with fear.

Arik quickly pulled his little brother into his arms, pinning Kaylan against his chest and covering the smaller child’s mouth with his hand.

“What was that?” A gruff voice drifted overhead from the top of the embankment.

A second voice answered with a snort, “Just a squirrel.”

“That ain’t no squirrel,” the first voice scoffed. “It ain’t never squirrels.”

Holding his breath, Podrick inched forward and looked up, spotting several shadows lingering near the top of the rise. Pressing his back against the eroded embankment, Podrick gripped his sword tighter as he waited for the hunters to raise an alarm. However, the call never came.

“Ain’t no one’s ere,” another voice barked brusquely. “The king be wrong.”

The sound of boots rustling over the dry leaves on the forest floor reached Podrick’s ears, followed shortly by the nickering of horses and the thunder of hooves as the hunters retreated into the distance

Letting out a sigh of relief, the knight lightened his grip on his sword as he turned his eyes to his two young charges. 

Struggling in his brother’s grasp, Kaylan shoved at his captor’s arms and wildly kicked his feet until Arik released his tight hold, depositing his little brother into the dirt.

“I want to go home!” The child hissed out a sob as he stood and stomped his foot on the ground.

“Stop being such a child, Kaylan,” Arik sneered down at his brother.

“I am a child!” Kaylan growled before breaking into tears and dropping down to the forest floor. He jutted out his lower lip, crossing his arms in front of his chest, and refused to move. 

“Kaylan, get up!” Arik hissed. 

“No,” Kaylan sobbed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of this hands. He looked up at his brother and shouted, “I want papa!”

“Ser Jaime had to–” Podrick said, reaching sympathetically for the child’s hand.

“Stop calling him that!” Kaylan cried, slapping Podrick’s hand away. “Papa’s name’s not Ser Jaime.”

The older boy rolled his eyes, grabbing Kaylan’s arm and pulling the smaller child to his feet. Bending down, Arik snarled in his little brother’s face, “No more temper tantrums or I will–”

Kaylan returned his brother’s sneer with one of his own. Pressing his lips together in determination, Kaylan yanked his arm free before kicking Arik in the shin.

Glaring up at both his older brother and the young knight with an animated scowl, Kaylan shouted. “I hate you! I hope you die!” 

Shaking his head, Arik said with a sigh, “You don’t mean that.”

“I do mean it! I hope you both die!” Kaylan cried, before darting into the forest and disappearing into the thick underbrush.

-o0o-

Ser Podrick Payne realized with a shudder that he was out of his depths. He had defeated men in battle, he had helped rescued a fair maiden from her brutal captors, and he had fought against an army of the dead. But one small child was apparently more than he could handle. Ever since they had been forced to flee from the hidden ravine, barely escaping the Raven King’s shade, Kaylan had been especially difficult.

It was true Podrick had very little experience with children; actually, Lyanna Mormont was the only child Podrick had ever really known, and the young Lady of Bear Island had been nothing less than a force of nature. 

Podrick knew he had to protect Ser Jaime’s sons, no matter how difficult the younger boy had become. Not only because Ser Brienne had ordered it, which she had. Not even because it was the right thing to do, which it was. He would protect Ser Jaime’s children because the knight had saved Podrick Payne’s life.

Three years ago, in the middle of the Battle of Winterfell, hundreds of wights had pressed Podrick against the broken battlements of the tormented castle. The dead kept coming wave after wave, with frozen blue eyes and rotting flesh. Podrick swung his sword, embossed with dragonglass shards. The wight in front of him fell, and like a swarm of locusts, three more took its place. 

Not many of the dead had weapons. The few that did held ancient and rusted iron axes or daggers. Most of the wights used their hands, clawing and slashing, or their bodies, smothering their victims under an avalanche of decaying flesh. 

Podrick’s hand felt numb, having gripped the hilt of his sword for so long his knuckles were white and the blade felt like an extension of his arm. His mind had even numbed; Podrick couldn’t remember how long he had fought. He couldn’t even spare a moment to wonder when the battle might end. 

All he could think, all he could do, was survive one moment longer, kill one more wight. Two more took its place. Two more, four more, eight more, smothering Podrick in an avalanche of decaying flesh.

With a loud grunt, Ser Jaime had pushed against the swarm of wights, temporarily freeing Podrick from the deluge and saving Podrick’s life. Inhaling deeply, the squire tried to gasp for the small relief the stale air might help him achieve. 

Podrick thought he heard Ser Brienne cry out over the din. Brienne was a noisy fighter; he couldn’t be sure if the scream was a battle cry or her last dying breath. He hadn’t the time to wonder; the space in front of him was once again filled with the undead.

Then suddenly, without any warning, the wights stopped moving, swaying slightly before collapsing into a pile of decaying flesh and dry bones.

The Long Night wasn’t the first time Ser Jaime Lannister had saved Podrick Payne’s life. After Lord Tyrion’s disastrous trial by combat, it was Ser Jaime who had arranged for his brother’s squire to escape King’s Landing and accompany Brienne of Tarth on her quest to save the Stark children. 

Podrick wouldn’t let Ser Jaime down; he had sworn an oath to protect the knight’s sons and make sure they made it safely to Winterfell. But before he could do that, he needed to find Kaylan.

-o0o-

Over black leather and chain-link armor, the men wore a blazon stitched onto the center of their equally dark surcoats, depicting a black raven on a sanguine field: the king’s colors.

Distracted by their search for Kaylan, Podrick and Arik hadn’t heard the dead leaves and dry twigs rustling underfoot as the black-clad hunters doubled back through the trees. 

“If it ain’t a couple o’ squirrels,” said a laughing voice, alerting Podrick to the threat.

Turning, Ser Podrick unsheathed his sword. Too late, as five more hunters in black stepped forward, also drawing their weapons. 

Ser Podrick was a better swordsman than the hunters. He had, after all, been trained by the finest knight in the realm. Had his opponents only numbered one, two or even three, Podrick could have easily dispatched the king’s hunters.

As Podrick held off four of the hunters, out of the corner of his eye he noticed one of the king’s men had grabbed Arik, twisting the young lad’s arms behind his back. Instead of struggling or crying for mercy, Arik threw his head backward. The sickening snap of the hunter’s nose breaking against Arik’s skull echoed through the forest. Podrick smiled; he definitely would ask Ser Jaime if he could take Arik on as a squire.

“You little shit!” the hunter growled, using the hilt of this sword to knock Arik unconscious.

Meanwhile, two of the king’s hunters moved around to flank Ser Podrick, creeping up behind the young knight as Podrick turned to face one of the men. The other man raised his sword and unceremoniously bashed the hilt of his blade across Podrick’s head. The knight’s eyes rolled back into this skull as he tumbled onto the forest floor. 

“Weren’t there supposed to be two kids?” one of the hunters asked, looking around for another child.

“I don’t see no more kids,” the hunter who had knocked Podrick out replied. Pulling the knight’s head backwards by his hair, the hunter scoffed into Podrick’s face. “You hiding another kid round ‘ere, sweetheart?”

“What’d he say?” Another of the hunters chuckled at this companion’s antics.

The hunter laughed as he pushed Podrick’s limp head roughly forward and replied, “He say’d no.”

Under the cover of thick brush, Kaylan whispered as tears clouded his vision, “I didn’t mean it.” 

The boy lay frozen, hidden and unnoticed by the king’s hunters, watching in horror as the king’s hunters had descended on his brother and Ser Podrick. Kaylan felt his heart tear apart when Arik fell limply forward after one of the hunters had bashed the back of his brother’s skull with the hilt of his sword. A moment later, Ser Podrick also fell under the blade of one of the hunters. 

The king’s men made rapid work of throwing Podrick and Arik’s limp bodies on the back of one of their horses, tying them in place before quickly riding away.

“My fault,” Kaylan whispered as tears streamed down his cheeks. “I killed them.”


	9. Veil of the Eighth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am very sorry I fell off the update schedule this week, I wasn't feeling well. I will try to keep to the 3 days a week schedule next week.
> 
> Again I want to thank Sea_Spirit for betaing this fic and all the readers who left kudos and comments.

Chapter Nine  
Veil of the Eighth

Hundreds of butterflies fluttered above the verdant meadow as the midday sun lingered warm and reassuring in the cloudless sky. Fragrant wildflowers and sweet-smelling grass drifted on the breeze, the fervent perfume of late spring. From the heart of the meadow, a flock of birds scolded harshly as they rose en masse into the cerulean sky. A red fox, leaping high over the tall grasses, snapped its sharp jaws at the fleeing birds.

Having finally left the dense forests and foggy crags of the Vale foothills, the gently rolling hills and lightly forested glades of the Riverlands unfolded before them like the petals of a flower. The terrain was easier on the horses and should have lifted the spirits of the unintended rebels. It didn’t.

“Is it too much to ask? Just once, I’d like to travel through the Riverlands without being hunted by one king or another,” Jaime groused, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

Brienne looked up and grunted before returning to her task of polishing Oathkeeper. 

They had decided to postpone crossing the expansive meadow until nightfall. From his position under the trees bordering the meadow, an eastern breeze tousled Jaime’s golden hair as he looked out across the open grassland. The meadow unfolded before him like a beautifully illuminated manuscript. If their circumstances weren't so dire, it might have been a pleasant excursion through the northern Riverlands.

Tyrion as well glanced up from his book and frowned at his brother before returning his mismatched eyes to the ancient text. Unlike Jaime, Tyrion wasn’t bothered by the temporary suspension of their journey north. 

The day was pleasant enough. The sun was warm and a light breeze whispered through the trees on the edge of the forest where they had stopped to wait out the day. The unplanned delay also gave Tyrion the opportunity to study the ancient magical tome and decipher its secrets. 

The margins of the old book were filled with scribbled notes. The earliest, faded to almost the same shade of yellow as the tome’s ancient pages, were in the same archaic Andalos language as the text. Some of the notes were written in Valyrian, which Tyrion understood a little; he could read High Valyrian better than he could speak the ancient language of the dragon lords. The newest summaries were written in the Common Tongue in a clear and even script, likely scribbled by the old monk who had given Tyrion the ancient tome.

Although the book wasn’t technically written in a different language, ancient Andalos was far enough removed from the Common Tongue that it made the book difficult to understand, Only with the help of contextual clues and the annotated notes was Tyrion beginning to understand the archaic script. 

At first, Tyrion had assumed the ancient tome was a magical book of spells, and it was, after a fashion. For hidden amongst pages and pages of metaphors and anecdotes of the gods were descriptions of, and uses for, ancient words of power, including the one Cadfael had used to dispel the Raven King’s shadow creature. 

Tyrion was disappointed to discover several passages were either torn away or scratched out and completely unreadable. After examining the binding of the archaic tome closely, he was also sure there were more than a few pages missing. Which wasn’t really all that surprising, considering the age of the ancient book.

Magical incantations aside, the old book was mostly a religious text similar to The Seven-Pointed Star, the holy text of the Faith of the Seven. Somehow, the ancient tome was both eerily analogous and completely distinctive from that most holy of books, which Tyrion was forced to memorize as a child. 

Tyrion let the old book fall to his lap as he considered his history with the Faith of the Seven. If truth be told, there wasn’t much history. During King Joffrey’s reign, Tyrion had sat on the small council alongside the High Septon, a fidgety and unexceptional man lacking anything resembling a personality. Tyrion had also married a young Sansa Stark in the Great Sept of Baelor. But other than those two instances, Tyrion couldn’t remember the Faith playing much of a role in his life. 

Tapping his finger to his chin, Tyrion tried to remember the old sept on the grounds of Casterly Rock. Like all great castles south of the Neck, Casterly Rock had a sept and employed a septa. Although Septa Saranella’s main duties had seemed to involve shadowing Cersei, making sure the young girl didn’t get into mischief, which Cersei was often prone to do—but only when she believed she could get away with it. 

Aside from her duties supervising the lord’s daughter, the septa taught all the children of Tywin Lannister to respect and worship the new gods. However, Tyrion couldn’t remember his father ever stepping foot inside a sept, except for official state functions or when decorum demanded his presence.

Tyrion looked up at his brother and asked, “Did Father ever pray in the sept at Casterly Rock?”

“Of course he did,” Jaime replied with an uninterested shrug.

“When?” Tyrion asked curiously, as his brother sat down next to him.

Rubbing his temples, Jaime searched his memory; he was sure he recalled seeing their father praying in the little sept on the grounds of Casterly Rock.

-o0o-

_Forty years ago _

The sept was filled with a soft rosy light, brushing against the old stone of the sanctuary’s walls, which blushed in a delicate crimson glow. Stained-glass windows edged up against the soaring arched ceiling of the octagonal sept, depicting the legend of Lann the Clever in vivid reds and golds. 

Large gilded doors filled one wall of the sept. Alcoves set flush against the other seven walls, and each held a golden statue of one of the gods: Father, Mother, Warrior, Smith, Maiden, Crone and Stranger. 

Brightly burning candles lined the altar in front of the Mother, the wax dripping into cooling pools on white-and-gold-speckled marble. The statue appeared to smile down at the little golden-haired boy as he knelt before her alter.

“Jaime, the candle,” the kind female voice hummed as a soft and delicate hand wrapped around his smaller one, helping the young boy place the candle on the large altar.

“What will she do?” Jaime asked, looking up into the green eyes of his mother as she knelt beside him.

“The Mother will keep the baby safe,” Joanna Lannister replied as she placed her son’s hand on her rounded stomach. 

Jaime felt movement beneath his hand. His eyes grew wide as he looked up into his mother’s face. 

“The little one is kicking,” Joanna cooed softly in response to her son’s unspoken question.

“Does it hurt?” Jaime asked. When he was kicked in the stomach during sword training, it had hurt.

“No, sweetling.” Joanna smiled warmly, brushing Jaime’s golden hair away from his eyes. “Your little brother or sister is just impatient to meet you.” 

“He wants to play?” Jaime said excitedly, thinking how fun it would be to play with a little baby. 

“He or she,” Joanna corrected her young son.

“Will he stay or go away like Cousin Cleos?” Jaime asked. 

A few weeks ago, Aunt Genna had visited Casterly Rock, bringing along her newborn baby. Even though Cleos was rather fussy, Jaime had enjoyed playing with his little cousin. Cersei, on the other hand, had pronounced the baby ugly and annoying, and refused to even look at their small cousin. However, Jaime had been sad when his aunt left, taking the small bundle with her.

“Our little one will stay with us here at Casterly Rock always.” Joanna smiled and ran her hand across Jaime’s upturned face. “And you will always take care of and protect your little brother or sister.”

“Yes,” Jaime nodded bravely, puffing out his chest in pride. He would be a good older brother.

The sept suddenly grew dim; a cloud must have blocked out the sun, causing the rosy golden light to darken to a murky shade of burnt amber. As Jaime looked up at his mother, the orange light bathed her face, washing out her delicate features and making her look harsh. 

Rising to his feet, Jaime looked around the sept; in the past, he had always stood in awe of the golden beauty of each of the statues set in their alcoves. In the harsh orange glow, they looked smaller, less grand, and somehow incomplete.

A breeze fluttered through Jaime’s golden hair, a mirror of his father’s. A short distance away, Tywin Lannister knelt before the statue of the Father, his head bowed in silent prayer.

When Tywin stood and turned to his wife and son, a smile spread across his handsome face. Jaime’s father didn’t smile often, and only then when he was in the sept or in the presence of his wife. 

“What did you pray for?” Joanna asked, reaching out to take her husband’s hand. 

“The child, of course.” Tywin smiled, and he gently laid his hand on Joanna’s rounded stomach. “For our second son to be both intelligent and wise.”

Shuffling his feet, Jaime bowed his head as his heart dropped. Even at the young age of seven, he knew he was a disappointment to his father. After Maester Volarik had proclaimed Jaime unteachable, Tywin had taken over the task of tutoring his son, and he was often harsh and exacting when Jaime struggled to learn his letters. 

Jaime felt his mother’s soft hand gently stroke his hair, reassuring her young son he was loved. Turning to her husband, Joanna frowned. “My lord husband, I fail to see how–”

“My lord.” Maester Volarik hurried into the sept, interrupting the Lady of Casterly Rock. “A raven has arrived from King’s Landing.”

“I must see to this,” Tywin said, bowing to his wife before turning to follow the old maester out of the sept.

Jaime reached up and tugged on his mother’s dress. “I’m sorry I’m not smart.”

“My little sweetling.” Joanna knelt down, running her delicate hand under Jaime’s chin, lifting his face so their eyes met. “Books and letters are important, but they are not everything. The true measure of a man, of a knight and lord, is how well they succeed at being who they are. You are kind and virtuous, and so very strong and brave. These are also traits the future Lord of Casterly Rock must have.”

-o0o-

_Three years later_

Dust floated on a ray of sunlight glittering through the curtains of the large bay window of the library. Shelves bursting with dusty books and old scrolls filled every available space in the large chamber. The musty smell of old, dry paper assaulted Tywin’s senses as he stepped inside Casterly Rock’s expansive library. 

Hushed young voices drifted from the far side of the chamber, near the cushioned chair upholstered with red and gold brocade, which always sat next to the large bay windows. 

Tywin’s eyes twitched in anger and a severe frown pulled his mouth downward. Jaime was meant to present himself in Tywin’s solar for his daily reading lesson, and the boy was over an hour late. Tywin wasn’t pleased about being kept waiting by a ten-year-old, and now to find his idiot son playing in the library. 

Tywin rounded the corner expecting to see Jaime and Cersei playing on the large chair; the twins had become nearly inseparable since the death of their mother three years ago. Instead, he found Jaime lounging on the overstuffed chair, his three-year-old brother curled up next to him and a large illustrated book spread across his lap. They hadn’t noticed their father’s approach, so Tywin stepped back into the shadows to listen.

“No–gē–ä,” Jaime stuttered through the word.

The three-year-old calmly pointed to the book and said, “Backwards, Jaime. Try closing and opening your eyes a couple of times.”

Jaime scrunched his eyes shut before opening them and squinting at the word. “Oh, A–ē–goon.”

“Almost,” Tyrion said, smiling up at his brother. “The letters A and E combine to make the /ai/ sound, see? Ae–gon.”

“Aegon’s drag-guns were nam-ded–”

“Named,” Tyrion corrected his brother kindly.

“Named Bal–” Jaime pointed at down at the book and looked sadly down at his little brother.

Tyrion squinted at the book and replied, “Balerion.” 

“Balerion, Vhagar and Meraxes,” Jaime read proudly, before looking at Tyrion for conformation.

“That’s right, Jaime!” Tyrion said, grinning up at his brother fondly. “Just stay focused. Try not to think about sparing in the training yard, and you will be able to read this passage to Father.”

Tywin was stunned; he hadn’t realized Tyrion had already learned to read, and at just three years old the little monster apparently read better than his much older brother. Suddenly, Tywin remembered his prayer to the gods before Tyrion was born; he had prayed for his second-born son to be both intelligent and wise. Rage flashed behind Tywin’s eyes; the gods had granted his prayer and given his son extraordinary intelligence. However, they still hadn’t seen fit to save Joanna. 

Tywin turned, storming out of the library and cursing all seven gods for their duplicity. Not realizing it was only one god, a long-lost and long-forgotten god, he should have blamed.


	10. Where Ants Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still trying to catch up to my update schedule. I am sorry I fell behind lat week.  
Thank you for patience and understanding and all the wonderful comments.
> 
> Also Thanks to Sea_Spirit for beta'ing the fic.

Chapter Ten  
Where Ants Go

The murmur of water rushing over the rocks in the stream was a symphony, an ethereal song like the singing of fairies hidden in the reeds near the shore. The slow-moving stream reflected blue sky, the sun and the white feathery clouds. The mirrored sun sparkled in the lightly lapping ripples of the lazy stream, shining on the backs of the dragonflies glimmering gold and silver darting between the cattails and reeds.

Kneeling down on the rocky banks, the dark stranger’s hands dipped into the stream and splashed the silken water on a face, dirt-streaked from extended travel. Even in the heart of the day, the stream that had originated high up in the Mountains of the Moon sent a chill through the stranger’s limbs. 

The dark-clad stranger was an explorer, before that a warrior, and a good warrior’s instincts never dull. Neither the slight rustling in the tall reeds nor the soft brown eyes staring out from the foliage near the stream had gone unnoticed.

“Well, come out then.” The stranger stood slowly, turning toward the stand of reeds.

The brown eyes disappeared into flora.

“No sense hiding,” the stranger teased lightly.

Slowly a small boy emerged from the tall reeds. “Are… are you a knight?” the lad shuddered. 

“No,” the stranger replied. “Do I look like a knight?”

“You have a sword?” the boy said timidly. “And knights carry swords.”

“Quite the little spy, aren’t you?” The stranger chuckled and smiled down at the child before adding, “Women can’t be knights.”

“Ser Brienne is a knight,” the boy retorted.

“You know Ser Brienne?” the mysterious woman asked in surprise.

“She’s friends with my papa.” The child nodded and sniffed, wiping his runny nose on his sleeve. Trying to hold back his tears to no avail, the boy cried, “Can you help me find my papa?”

“What is your name, boy?” the woman asked.

“Kaylan,” the boy uttered timidly.

“Well, Kaylan,” Arya Stark said, reaching out her hand to the child. “I can’t know for sure, until I know who your papa is.”

-o0o-

Arya rolled her eyes, and not for the first time in the last hour. Briefly, she wondered if this was how Sandor Clegane had felt when they had travelled together. Surely not; Arya had been quiet and sullen, refusing to talk to the Hound for long stretches of time and then shouting at him for even longer stretches.

Kaylan, sitting in front of Arya as they rode through the forest on her jet black stallion, had talked non-stop since she had found him hiding amongst the reeds. He seemed almost incapable of shutting up. She had to wonder how the child didn’t die of asphyxiation. 

From the exasperating tale the boy told—the tournament, meeting Lord Tyrion and Ser Brienne, the death of his mother, being kidnapped by a witch and finally fleeing from their home in the Vale—Arya was beginning to grasp what had transpired over the last three years, as unbelievable as the story appeared. 

Jaime Lannister apparently survived the attack on King’s Landing, and had hidden as a farmer in the Vale for the last three years. Possibly after losing his memory; she wasn’t quite sure. Arya supposed it was possible the Kingslayer might have spawned a couple of bastard children, other than the royal bastards, of course. Although from what she knew of Jaime Lannister, it didn’t seem likely, and with his shaggy brown hair and dark brown eyes, Kaylan didn’t look very much like a Lannister. 

When the sky began to darken, they stopped and made camp under a grove of trees. 

Suddenly, Kaylan asked,“Why is your horse so ugly?” 

Looking up from her task of preparing the campfire, Arya noticed the boy standing next to her large black stallion. Kaylan looked minuscule. “Sandor isn’t ugly,” she replied with a snort. “He has character.” 

She had bought the large black warhorse three years ago, after the fall of King’s Landing. The stallion, like many other horses who survived the dragon’s attack, had been rounded up by an enterprising felon, willing to trade horse flesh to the starving citizens of the fallen city for a few coins.

At first, Arya had thought the stallion was the Hound’s horse, Stranger. That was until she had walked around to the front of the large animal and got a good look at the stallion’s tortured face. The horse no longer reminded her of the Hound’s horse. The large black stallion reminded her more of Stranger’s former master than the horse itself.

“How much?” Arya had asked the seller.

“Not good for much more than food,” the seller had told her, “burned as he is.”

Much like the man for whom the horse was named, the right side of the stallion’s long flat nose and neck were burned. Part of his right ear was missing, along with much of the horse’s long black mane. The stallion’s right eye was dead white, the heat of the dragon’s fire having blinded him on one side. 

Her constant companion for the last three years, Sandor had sailed with Arya away from Westeros to explore the mysterious lands that lay west of the continent. By the time they reached the first landmasses, the horse’s wounds had healed, leaving only rough scar tissue in its place.

No, Sandor wasn’t a pretty horse. However, like the Hound, the stallion was fearless, strong and extremely temperamental. He had pulled Arya out of more than a few scrapes in the last three years. No matter how often she told the large horse, when she was angry at his stubbornness, she should just leave him for dead, Arya knew she never would. 

A few months ago, Arya felt a pull, an unnerving need to return home. They had returned to Westeros a few weeks ago, making port at Seaguard on Ironman’s Bay before heading inland toward the Kingsroad. 

Looking up, Arya saw Kaylan pull an apple out of his satchel; standing on his toes, the boy extended his hand up to Sandor’s nose. The big horse eyed the child and apple suspiciously. 

“I wouldn’t do that,” Arya warned dryly. “Sandor bites.”

Kaylan snatched his hand back, dropping the apple in the process. Sandor snorted and dipped his long neck, seizing the apple from the ground. Meanwhile, the boy backed slowly away from the large black horse.

“He’s mean?” Kaylan asked, returning to the fire and keeping a watchful eye on the large animal.

“Not mean,” replied Arya with a shrug. “Just particular in the company he keeps.”

Kaylan pressed his lips together in a sad frown; his father had always said that everyone would love him because of his intelligence and charm. Although, Papa had also said everyone would love Arik because of his unfaltering diligence. Kaylan wasn’t so sure about that; most of the time his older brother was awfully grumpy. His father went on to say everyone loved Momma because of how much she cared for them, which she had. 

When Kaylan asked why everyone loved his papa, Braedon thought for a moment and finally replied, “I don’t think they do. Only the people who truly matter, like you and Arik and Momma.”

Apparently everyone loved Kaylan, except large grumpy horses.

“He doesn’t like me?” Kaylan pouted, his lower lip jutting forward. 

Arya responded with a curt chortle. “He likes it quiet.” 

“Oh,” Kaylan inhaled and clamped his mouth shut, his eyes growing wide as he held his breath. 

Arya watched curiously until it looked like Kaylan might pass out. Apparently breathing and talking went hand-in-hand for the boy. 

Finally, she asked, “So, how were you separated from your father?” 

She regretted asking almost immediately. The child launched into yet another long and winding tale. From what Arya could gather, after Jaime Lannister had fallen ill with some mysterious ailment, Tyrion and Brienne had bundled up the knight and gone to find help. 

Meanwhile, Kaylan and his brother were left in the care of Ser Podrick. They were supposed to wait, hidden in a secluded ravine deep in the forest. However, something had apparently spooked the young knight, and they had fled before their companions returned.

“How were you separated from Ser Podrick?” Arya inquired.

“I...I killed them!” Kaylan cried, tears streaming down his face. “I didn’t mean it! But I did, I wished it, and now they’re dead!” 

“What?”

The boy explained between spurts of hiccups and sobs, how he had hidden under the brush and could only helplessly watch as Ser Podrick and Arik were captured by the king’s hunters. “It’s my fault. I wished for them both to die. It’s my fault they’re dead!”

“You can’t wish people dead,” Arya said tersely. She really had no idea how to talk to a distraught eight-year-old. “Did the hunters cut off their heads?”

The boy whimpered and shook his head, gasping for air between violent sobs.

“Then they’re not dead.” Arya tried smiling reassuringly, which only had the effect of making her look darkly sinister.

Kaylan looked up and cried, “How do you know?”

Arya sighed and tried her best to explain calmly. “Because no one wants to lug a decaying corpse all the way back to King’s Landing. If Ser Podrick or your brother were truly dead, the hunters would have cut off their heads to show the king the deed was done and left their bodies to rot.”

Her reassurances had the opposite effect as she intended. Imagining his brother’s head cut off and his body left to rot, Kaylan flung himself onto the forest floor, wailing uncontrollably and kicking his feet at the ground. 

“Quiet!” Arya hissed, to no avail. Rolling her eyes, Arya reached over and stroked the child’s hair. “Hush now, tomorrow we will head north and find your father. He will know what to do.”

“Promise?” Kaylan looked up, his voice cracked and raw, and rubbed his bloodshot eyes with the heels of his hands.

“Promise,” Arya nodded and was suddenly taken by surprise when Kaylan crawled over to her, laying his head on her lap and clutching at her tunic before falling asleep. 

The next morning, Arya rose early. The air, thick and damp, cold even though the morning sun was peeking through the haunted grey clouds. Arya packed Sandor’s saddlebags quickly and quietly before kicking dirt over the still-smoldering campfire. She didn’t spare a glance at the sleeping child, rolled up in her spare blanket and still fast asleep, lest she lose her nerve. 

She planned on leaving him; taking care of a child wasn’t her calling. Yes, she had promised Kaylan to take him to his father. _But what were promises, anyway?_ She wasn’t a knight; she wasn’t Ser Brienne. Arya didn’t need or want the burden of oaths and honor. The boy would be disappointed, of course. But wasn’t disappointment just another part of life? He would learn sooner or later that adults always disappoint. 

She would leave him the blanket, some food and one of her water skins, which was more than most people would offer a poor, homeless orphan. Pulling herself onto Sandor’s back, Arya couldn’t help but glance down at the sleeping child; all she needed to do was ride away. 

_He will be fine,_ she told herself. The boy was only a few years younger than Arya had been when Ilyn Payne had executed her father, leaving her alone in a war-ravished world. 

Kaylan was probably better equipped to fend for himself than she had been. Arya had grown up in a castle with servants and retainers who waited on her every need.

As a peasant, Kaylan’s childhood would have been entirely different. The smallfolk of the realm had been hit hard during the wars; the boy would already be familiar with the pain of starvation and fear. 

Kaylan was also smart; he would know where to find food in the forest, what was poisonous and what was good to eat and where to find clean water. The boy certainly knew how to hide. If any other person had come across the boy hiding near the stream, they would never have found him. 

_He will be fine. _

The Kingsroad was only a few miles east, a short walk away. A smart and friendly child like Kaylan could easily find a family willing to take him in. Yes, the boy would be fine. No reason she shouldn’t just ride away._ How have I not yet ridden away?_ Arya wondered. 

An ant crawled across her wrist, a tickling of tiny feet. _Just like me,_ Ayra thought, _going nowhere, going everywhere and all in a hurry._ Shaking her hand, Arya dislodged the tiny ant from her wrist, and it fell into the thick ground cover on the forest floor. _Where am I going? What am I doing?_

From her height atop Sandor’s long back, Arya sighed loudly and rolled her eyes before shouting down at the sleeping child, “Kaylan, wake up! It’s time to go.”

An hour later, Kaylan had fallen back to sleep, sitting in front of Arya, resting his head against her shoulder as they rode along the Kingsroad.


	11. The Hedge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kudos and comments they are always fun to read.  
Thanks to Sea_Spirit for beta'ing this fic.

Chapter Eleven  
The Hedge

From their perspective on the top of a hill, they looked down at the giant wall undulating across the landscape. The massive verdant hedge held a strange beauty, like some celestial princess had dropped her silk green ribbon, which then floated gracefully down to earth. 

“Well, that’s new,” Jaime said dryly.

“Oh, did I forget to mention the giant wall the Queen of the North is building across the Neck?” Tyrion replied indifferently.

“You forgot?!” Jaime gaped at his brother in disbelief, motioning to the giant living wall stretching across the countryside below them. “How could you forget…that?!”

Brienne rolled her eyes and retorted curtly, “We were rather busy defeating an undead witch, saving you from shadow creatures and fleeing for our lives from the king’s hunters.” 

“It still seems like something you might have mentioned,” Jaime said, shaking his head as he urged his horse down the hill toward the giant structure.

Tyrion looked over at Brienne and shrugged his shoulders before nudging his horse forward, following his brother down into the thick green forest that spread from the base of the hill all the way to the giant green wall.

The forest canopy rose overhead as opulent and rich as a grand palace in some fabled kingdom, fashioning an arched ceiling of fluttering dark leaves. Ancient boughs, gnarled and twisted, seemed to groan in pain as the wind hammered through the trees. The giant hedge rose above the canopy, blocking out the sun. 

Drawing closer to the giant hedge, they could make out the thick vines and jaundiced-colored thorns twisting slowly as the living wall continued to grow before their eyes. 

“Could we climb it?” Brienne asked, gazing up at the giant wall. The vines began to undulate violently. “It’s not anywhere near as high as the Wall in the North.” 

A kingfisher’s shrill morning cry seemed to warn against the attempt as the little black-and-white bird hopped between the thick vines and ivy near the top of the wall. Birds were not the only creatures inhabiting the giant hedge. Squirrels and raccoons also dwelt amongst the verdant wall’s lower branches. 

“I think we might want more information before we attempt that endeavor,” Tyrion answered as he pointed up at the decaying human corpse slowly disintegrating amongst the ivy and twisting vines. Next to the putrid corpse, a large red flower bloomed, contrasting sharply with the green foliage of the living wall. 

Tyrion was right to be cautious. When Jaime approached too close to the massive wall, a thorn-armored vine lashed out. Quickly ducking, Jaime danced backwards, barely avoiding the lethal assault of vines and thorns. Even though it appeared animals could reside amongst the vines and ivy, the wall appeared to draw the line at humans.

“I think climbing is out of the question,” Jaime said, staring daggers at the sinister wall.

“We could go east,” Tyrion suggested, “find a boat and sail across the Bite.”

“It won’t work,” a booming voice rose from trees behind them. 

Jaime and Brienne drew their swords and turned to face the new threat. The large knight emerged from the trees, followed by at least twenty men-at-arms. Their black plate armor underneath equally black surcoats with a raven stitched on a blood-red blazon identified them as the king’s men. 

“Ser Jaime?” the large knight bellowed loudly, the surprise evident in his deep voice. “What? How? You’re not dead?” 

“Strongboar!” Jaime exclaimed, a cutting smile playing across his lips. “It is good to see you, my old friend. Sadly, I’m afraid we haven’t time just now to catch up on old times. We are rather in a hurry to be on our way.”

Ser Lyle Crakehall, also known as Strongboar, had grown up with Jamie Lannister. They had trained together as youths at the knight’s family keep, aptly named Crakehall, where Jaime had squired for Strongboar’s grandfather, Sumner Crakehall. Ser Lyle had once not only considered Jaime his lord commander, but also a friend and brother. 

A conflicted expression crossed the bulky knight’s features as he turned to look back at his men before stating in a gruff voice, “I…That is, we will have plenty of time for reminiscences. Lady Brienne of Tarth and Lord Tyrion Lannister, you are under arrest for treason, by order of the king.”

Jaime and Brienne fought desperately, but in the end the battle was nothing more than a lost cause. They were outnumbered and pushed up against the aggressive living wall, and Strongboar’s men were eventually able to subdue the two knights, although not without suffering several severe injuries. 

“Are we not heading to King’s Landing?” Jaime inquired as they rode southwest, following the winding path the living wall had carved through the forest. Strongboar had ordered the fugitives tried to their horses; however, out of respect for his former lord commander, he hadn’t bidden them gagged. 

“The Twins,” Strongeboar grunted, still a little perturbed about the injury to his men.

“I am sorry about your men,” Jaime said, glancing back at the wounded soldiers travelling near the end of the procession. “Would you have done less, in my position?”

“I suppose not,” Strongboar replied with a snort. 

Sensing his old friend’s mood lightening, Jaime decided to continue. “Why are we going to the Twins?”

“It’s where Lord Marbrand is at the present moment,” Strongboar barked.

Isolated for the last three years in his little corner of the Vale, Jaime knew nothing of the politics of the realm. Looking from Strongboar to Tyrion, Jaime asked, “Why is Lord Damon at the Twins?”

“Not Lord Damon.” Strongboar’s loud voice echoed through the trees. “Ser Addam is laying siege to the Twins.”

“Again, why?” 

“Addam is Master of War,” replied Tyrion in Strongboar’s stead. “Six months ago, the North annexed the Twins, and Lord Edmure Tully asked for the crown’s help retaking the castles.”

“We are at war with the North, again? And Addam is Master of War?” Jaime blinked in astonishment and glared at Tyrion. “Is there anything else you forgot to tell me?”

Tyrion shrugged his shoulders and turned to Strongboar; something the large knight had said earlier still bothered him, “Ser Lyle, why did you say sailing across the Bite wouldn’t work?”

Strongboar waved his thick hand at the wall soaring overhead, “These blasted vines continue on under the gulf. The cursed things attacked our ships when we tried to cross the Bite.”

Tyrion gasped. “How far?”

“At least as far as the Three Sisters,” replied the large knight with a grunt.

“Are the sea lanes still open?” 

“Not to us. The Iron Islands have declared for the North, and the Greyjoy Fleet patrols the Narrow Sea, raiding any of our ships trying to sail north. Although ships from Tyrosh still trade in the North, or so says our spy network.” 

Jaime lowered his voice so neither Strongboar or his men would hear. “Why would the Three-Eyed Raven need a network of spies? Isn’t he supposed to see and know all?”

Tyrion scowled up at the giant wall; something about it felt oddly familiar. In a way, the living barrier reminded Tyrion of Brother Cadfael’s workshop, although not as warm or inviting. No, the verdant wall wasn’t humble, and it radiated immense magical power. 

“He didn’t know you were still alive until you regained your memory,” Brienne said. “There must be a limit to his powers. Maybe this wall is mag–”

“Magic,” Tyrion said excitedly. “I think the wall is more than just a barrier. I think it’s a magical ward preventing King Brandon’s shadow from passing into the North.”

“All the more reason to find a way over this blasted thing,” Jaime said, looking up at the giant hedge. The wall appeared to recognize his intent, and the vines rippled and lashed out angrily. 

“What the fuck?!” Strongboar roared as the living wall continued to thrash violently in agitation. “All of you, away from the hedge. Now! Move, move!”

A thick, thorny vine crashed into one of the soldiers, dragging the surprised man, struggling and screaming, from his horse and impaling him on its giant, jagged yellow thorns. After the soldier had sunk beneath the leaves and ivy, adding the man’s corpse to the dark green mass, a large red flower bloomed on the surface of the verdant wall. 

Only when they were a safe distance away from the querulous plant did Strongboar order his men to slow their retreat. Grabbing Jaime by his tunic, the large knight pulled him forward so their faces almost touched. “Whatever you did to agitate that…thing, don’t do it again!”

Jaime shrugged and looked back at his old friend with his best ‘who me?’ expression. 

“Lannister,” Strongboar belted out, releasing his hold on Jaime’s tunic, “I don’t know if you are more trouble than you’re worth.”

“Oh, so much more trouble,” Jaime scoffed, flashing his old friend a wicked grin. “Maybe you should just let us go now and be done with it.”

Strongboar cast a crooked grin at Jaime before turning and urging his horse forward. The large man bellowed over his shoulder, “Naw, I think I might just keep you around for a bit longer.”

“Suit yourself,” Jaime shrugged and called after the knight. “But if you ever grow tired of lugging us around the Riverlands, we are more than happy to be on our way.”

Strongboar guffawed and turned to look back at Jaime. “So, why are you dressed like a lowborn farmer, anyway?”

“Why are you dressed like that?” Jaime mocked in return, motioning to Crakehall’s black plate armor. The only marking that identified his house was the small boar embossed onto his gauntlet. “Where is your family crest? You haven’t abandoned Crakehall, have you?”

“The Great Houses no longer maintain their own armies.” Strongboar shrugged, looking off to the west with a troubled expression—almost like he had been forced into something he didn’t understand and liked even less.

Jaime realized once again just how secluded his home in the Vale had been from the rest of the realm. He scoured Tyrion and Brienne with another questioning look; this was yet another piece of information they had failed to share with him. 

“Most of my men are not even from the same kingdom, but we all fight under one banner now. One army, one banner. The raven banner,” Strongboar continued, pointing out several of the black-clad men-at-arms under his command. “Jack is from the Riverlands, Wil is from the Stormlands, and Ariston over there is from Dorne. Never led a Dornishman into battle before. Fierce fighters, but they’re a stubborn, thick-headed lot.” 

“I hadn’t realized the king had moved forward with his plan to modernize and consolidate the realm’s armies,” Tyrion said, rather astonished.

Jaime blinked at his brother in confusion. “Why would anyone do such a thing?”

“Baratheon fighting Targaryen, Lannister fighting Stark, Greyjoys basically raiding everyone,” Brienne drawled. “The king believed the only way forward was for the lords of Six Kingdoms to surrender command of their armies. Without their soldiers, they wouldn’t be able to fight amongst themselves or rebel against the crown. Each house would only keep a small garrison of household guards.” 

“What?” Jaime inhaled sharply and snarled, “You can’t have actually agreed with this?”

Brienne and Tyrion shook their heads; they had both advised against merging the realm’s armies, warning the king it was too soon and many of the lords would resist. For once, they were just as confused as Jaime. They believed the matter closed. 

Apparently, the king had ignored their advice and moved forward with his plan while they were fleeing from his shadow creature. They hadn’t even been away from the capital for all that long. The Raven King must have secretly set the new policy in motion before Tyrion and Brienne had even left for the tournament in the Vale.

“I told the king it was a bad idea,” Tyrion replied, frustrated and clenching his hands into tight fists. “I told him that the Great Houses wouldn’t stand for it.”

“And did they?” Jaime inquired, turning back to Crakehall. “You know my father would never have allowed the crown to disband the Lannister army. Didn’t any of the lords object?” 

“Less than you would expect. Most of the houses just rolled over. Although some did complain, at first.” From the tense tone in Strongboar’s voice, they could tell the large knight didn’t like the current situation any more than they did. “That was until the king dissolved House Blackwater, imprisoning the lord and his family and executing all his men-at-arms who refused to don the black raven.” 

Tyrion’s mouth dropped open as he stared at Strongboar. “Bronn’s in prison?”

“And Lady Lollys and the children?” Brienne asked.

“Rotting in the black cells as we speak,” Strongboar grunted in reply.

-o0o-

They traveled quickly through the thick forest bordering the giant hedge. As they neared the Twins, more and more red flowers bloomed brightly on the verdant wall. After a few hours, Strongboar called for his soldiers to stop and rest for an hour. Ariston, the young man from Dorne, with the help of two soldiers from the Reach tied the prisoners to a tree. They handed each of the fugitives a heel of dry bread before rejoining their brothers in arms, gathered around a campfire a short distance away.

“So, let me get this straight.” Jaime’s voice rumbled with frustration. “You actually gave Highgarden to that parasite, even after he tried to shoot me in the face with a crossbow?” The annoyance was evident in the tone of Jaime’s voice; he wasn’t ready to forgive Bronn for his betrayal.

“On Cersei’s orders,” Tyrion retorted dryly.

“And then you named him Master of Coin.” Jaime grunted, ignoring Tyrion’s response. “Can the man even read?”

“Surprisingly, yes, he can,” Tyrion replied.

Brienne nodded in agreement. “Quite well, actually.” 

Jaime paused for a second. “Where did someone like Bronn ever learn to read?”

Tyrion shrugged. “I asked him once, and he just smirked like he always does when he doesn’t want to talk about his past.”

“Okay, he can read. Moving on. So then Bronn married Lollys Stokeworth,” Jaime prompted. “Hadn’t she already married someone else?”

“Who died during the attack on King’s Landing,” Tyrion explained frankly. “After Bronn became Lord of Highgarden, he had his pick of highborn ladies. He chose Lady Lollys, because she was the only one willing to marry him when he was nothing more than a poor, landless knight.”

“It’s kind of romantic,” Brienne said warmly, “like one of those old songs.”

“Oh, please,” Jaime snorted sarcastically. “And they have kids?” 

“Tyrion and Jaime,” Brienne replied, a mischievous smirk creeping across her lips.

“Tyrion and Jai– what?” Jaime’s mouth dropped open. 

“Well, he is a lord only because of us,” Tyrion replied, and then added with a chuckle, “Jaime’s a girl, by the way.”

Jaime ignored that comment and sneered, “Bronn isn’t a lord. He is nothing more than an up-jumped sellsword. Not for one day in his entire life has he ever thought of anyone else besides himself. How could he possibly be the only lord of the realm with enough backbone to resist the king’s command?”

“It makes sense,” Tyrion responded idly.

“How?” Jaime roared. 

Strongboar’s men turned to glare at the prisoners, one overly brave soul shouting, “Quiet Kingslayer!” 

Lowering his voice, Jaime said in a simmering whisper, “How? How does it make sense?”

“Jaime, let go of your anger for one moment and look at the facts,” Tyrion hissed back. “Yes, Bronn is an old, up-jumped sellsword who is only concerned with his own self-interest. Bronn knows this. He knows himself better than any man I have ever met.”

“As much as he gets on my nerves,” Brienne said, pressing her lips together so she wouldn’t sneer, the Lord of Highgarden really was annoying, “Lord Bronn is a lot smarter than either of you ever gave him credit for.” 

Tyrion nodded in agreement before turning back to Jaime. “And remember what Brother Cadfael said about guilt.”

“Bronn doesn’t know the meaning of the word,” Jaime snarled darkly. “The ungrateful bastard.”

“Yes,” Tyrion agreed, his voice dropping to a deep timbre. “Our old friend never felt an ounce of guilt in his entire life, and therefore the king couldn’t use his shadow creature against him.”

“Neither would Lord Bronn willingly hand over command of Highgarden’s armies to the crown,” Brienne added. “It isn’t in his best interest.” 

Tyrion nodded and continued, “Once House Blackwater was dissolved and its lord and lady imprisoned, and because Bronn is an up-jumped sellsword, the move probably didn’t offend a great many older houses,” Tyrion said with a deep and dark shiver. “However, it still sent a message to any lord who might have the willpower to resist the king’s shadow. A brilliant and yet sinister move on the part of our young monarch.”


	12. Over The Hedge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and comments and thanks to Sea_Spirit for proofreading this fic.

Chapter Twelve  
Over The Hedge

Gentle hills rolled softly down to the banks of the Green Fork; like much of the Riverlands, the landscape was a patchwork quilt of quiet farms and villages separated by a scattering of dense forests. The river cut through the countryside as if a giant had carved the landscape with his immense blade.

The two castles were once nearly indistinguishable, rising on either side of the Green Folk like mirrored reflections. The castle on the west bank of the great river looked much the same as it had during the reign of Walder Frey, with thick curtain walls surrounding stocky towers of dull grey stone. Like its former lord, there was nothing delicate or elegant about the dismal old stronghold. 

The eastern stronghold had changed, now smothered in thick twisting vines, sharp thorns and hundreds of bright red flowers. The verdant wall had woven its way down from the northeast, crashing onto the banks of the Green Fork before abruptly turning toward the Twins. The hungry flora gnawed and clung onto the stone of the castle’s walls, covering the stronghold in a thick blanket of green foliage.

The Raven Army, camped on the opposite bank of the Green Fork, stretched for miles in either direction. As the sun set over the western horizon, dozens of small campfires were born across the field, like a swarm of fireflies on a summer’s night.

Many a head turned to gape as Strongboar and his men escorted their prisoners through the camp. There could be no question as to the identity of the large knight’s captives. Not many women were as tall as Ser Brienne of Tarth, the former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. The short stature and golden-blond hair of the Hand of the King made Lord Tyrion Lannister as much, or even more, recognizable. 

However, it was Strongboar’s third prisoner who caused the most commotion amongst the soldiers. Even wearing the humble clothes of a farmer and with his golden hand replaced by a simple iron hook, the knight’s true identity wasn’t hard to guess. Even though Ser Jaime Lannister had supposedly died three years ago during the fall of King’s Landing, many of the soldiers had either fought for or against the Kingslayer in the wars of the last decade. 

“…Kingslayer.”

“…The Lord Commander’s alive.”

“…Thought the bastard was dead.”

“…Saw him charge a dragon.”

The whispers followed the prisoners as Strongboar escorted them into the western castle. When they entered the spacious great hall, a cold shiver ran through Brienne’s veins. This was where Lady Catelyn had drawn her last breath. 

High up on a dais at the front of the spacious hall, Lord Edmure Tully sat in the late lord’s chair. 

He was surrounded by his household guard, a rare splash of color amongst the black darkness of the king’s forces. Edmure Tully’s personal guards still wore the trout sigil and the blue and red colors of House Tully. The lord of Riverrun rose suddenly as they approached, a sneer pulling on his lips as he stepped down from the dais. 

“Kingslayer! How the tables have turned. How does it feel to be my prisoner?” A menacing grin spread across Lord Edmure’s face. When Jaime refused to reply, the Lord of Riverrun sneered, “What? No idle threats, no clever ripostes?”

“Lord Tully,” Jaime scoffed, “I could never be as clever as you think you are.”

Tyrion snorted in amusement before clamping his mouth shut and rolling his eyes upward. 

Pausing for a moment, looking from Tyrion to Jaime and taken in the Kingslayer’s words, Edmure clenched his hands into tight fists as rage shimmered behind his blue eyes. 

“Lannisters!” Edmure Tully spat on the floor in front of the brothers and growled harshly. “So rich and powerful, undefeated, unstoppable. We were all expected to tremble at your feet. Who is trembling now?”

Without waiting for an answer, Lord Edmure swiftly turned and walked back to the dais, his hands clasped behind his back. Once he had settled down onto the lord’s chair, the Lord of Riverrun considered the prisoners for a moment before his mouth slid down in a snarl.

“Did you enjoy ordering the murder of my family, Kingslayer?” Edmure Tully sneered down at Jaime, hate clouding his vision.

“The Red Wedding was poorly done, but at the time Ser Jaime was my prisoner,” Brienne said, stepping hastily forward. “He had nothing to do with the murder of Lady Catelyn and–”

“He had everything to do with threatening my son!” Tully growled as he stood and glared down at the prisoners.

“You...your son?” Brienne stuttered as she turned and looked at Jaime in confusion.

“He didn’t tell you?” Edmure raised his eyebrows and leaned forward to glare at Jaime, “Tell her, Kingslayer. Tell your lady how you threatened to use a catapult to launch my infant son over the walls of Riverrun, unless I surrendered my ancestral home.”

Brienne stared at Jaime in horror. “Jaime? No–”

Jaime raised his chin and glared at Edmure Tully, replying haughtily, “We were at war.”

“As we are at war now,” Lord Edmure responded coldly, turning his gaze toward Tyrion. “Maybe I shall launch a member of your family over the walls of the Hedge, someone of whom I believe the Queen of the North is quite fond.”

“Touch my brother and it will be the last thing you do.” Jaime’s green eyes flashed violently as he stepped between Tyrion and Edmure.

“Enough!” Strongboar roared, deep and gravely. “No one is launching anyone over anything.”

“I am Lord Regent of this castle!” From the height of the dais, Edmure Tully growled down at Strongboar.

“A position you continue to hold only because of my army,” a fresh voice joined the heated discussion.

Everyone turned as a handsome knight, wearing the dark armor and the sanguine and black sigil of a commander in the Raven King’s forces, walked into the hall from a side door. Long auburn hair flowed past the tall and lanky knight’s broad shoulders; as he turned to look at Jaime, a sharp grin played across the knight’s lips. 

“By the gods! It is true!” the commander said as he walked forward. Clasping Jaime’s shoulders, the tall knight pulled him into a friendly embrace. “When I received the message from Strongboar’s runner, I scarcely believed it.”

“It is good to see you as well, Addam,” Jaime responded. “Although I do wish the circumstances were different.” 

“Indeed,” Ser Addam Marbrand replied. “Strongboar, Ser Jaime and his companions are our guests. Please escort them to my solar.” 

“The Kingslayer is my prisoner!” Edmure Tully roared in frustration.

“And how long do you think he will he remain so,” Ser Addam wondered caustically, throwing an unyielding gaze up at Edmure Tully, “when I pull my forces back?”

“The king will hear of this,” was Edmure Tully’s only retort.

“I am sure he already knows,” Ser Addam scoffed dryly as he turned swiftly and exited through the door he had recently entered, followed closely by Strongboar and the three prisoners. 

Weaving through a maze of dull stone corridors, they came to a stop in front of the solar of the late Lord Walder Frey. Standing guard outside the large double doors, a tall young soldier with dark hair and eyes stood at attention as the Master of War entered his solar. 

The solar was filled with a warm golden glow; candles burning on sconces along the four walls chased the night shadows away. Once inside with the doors shut, Ser Addam leaned back against his desk and crossed his arms in front of his chest, considering his prisoners earnestly. 

“Strongboar, please untie our guests. We are all friends here.” 

“No funny business,” Strongboar whispered gruffly in both Jaime and Brienne’s ear as he untied their hands.

Ser Addam motioned to several chairs near the side of the room. “Please, have a seat.” 

The commander waited patiently while chairs were repositioned in front of his desk and the prisoners settled down. Strongboar, however, remained standing next to the door with his hand resting on Oathkeeper’s hilt, secured on his hip.

“I hear you are actually in charge of that ragtag rabble outside,” Jaime said cuttingly. “Was that a Dornishman I saw guarding your door?” 

“Indeed. One army, one banner.” Addam Marband returned Jaime’s roguish grin with one of his own. However, the knight unconsciously moved his hand to the wristband on his right arm, where the burning oak tree, the sigil of House Marbrand, was embossed into the leather. It was obvious, while the handsome knight’s words said one thing, his eyes and demeanor said differently. 

“You can’t actually agree with this…this insane motley?” Jaime hissed.

“I am a soldier, and it is not my place to agree or disagree,” Addam replied with a snort, ending the conversation before it had even begun. 

Walking around the large desk, Ser Addam sat down and began shuffling several pieces of parchment around. It was an intimidation tactic the knight had learned from Jaime’s father: keep your adversaries waiting. 

Tyrion’s eyes grew wide, and he worried his bottom lip as he noticed the ancient book Brother Cadfael had given him sitting on the edge of the large desk. Addam, however, took little notice of the archaic tome as he picked up a scrap of parchment, reading slowly and thoroughly before writing several notes.

Ser Addam finally set the quill and parchment aside and turned his eyes back to his guests. In an overly calm voice, the knight asked, “So, tell me about the Hedge? How do we defeat it?”

“The Hedge?” Tyrion choked back a laugh. “Is that what you are calling that thing? How utterly clever.”

“Calling it the Wall was confusing,” Addam replied dully and repeated his question. “How do we defeat the Hedge?”

“Why are you asking us?” Jaime replied with a snort, turning his gaze away from Addam Marbrand, implying the question inane and beneath him.

“Your lady was once the sworn sword to the Queen of the North,” Ser Addam replied shrewdly, “and your brother was once married to the witch.”

“Queen Sansa is not a witch,” Brienne said, standing up to her full height, tall and intimidating as she glowered down at the handsome knight. 

Jaime reached up, grasping Brienne’s arm and pulling her back down to her seat. He shook his head as she turned to glare at him, warning her against any impulsive moves. 

“She’s not a witch,” Brienne muttered again, but eventually complied.

“Indeed,” Ser Addam said, glancing at Brienne for a moment before turning back to Tyrion. “We know you are both in league with the North.”

Tyrion shook his head and exclaimed, “We are not!”

“Then how do you explain delaying the deployment of the king’s forces, giving the North time to complete the Hedge?” Ser Addam prompted curtly. 

“I was trying to negotiate a peaceful solution,” Tyrion retorted.

Ser Addam grunted and picked up the ancient magical tome, causing Tyrion to bristle and lean forward in his chair. Addam pretended to study its contents before looking back up at the prisoners. “You are traitors to the crown. Strongboar and his men captured you while trying to cross into the North. How did you plan on getting over the Hedge?”

“We didn’t have a plan.” Jaime yawned and turned to stare at his childhood friend arrogantly. “Have you ever known me to have a plan?”

“Don’t play that trick with me, Jaime,” Ser Addam responded with a cunning smirk. “You are impulsive, but you are not as stupid as you oft pretend.”

Tyrion looked from his brother to Addam; the two knights had always had a competitive comradery, even as children when Ser Addam was a squire at Casterly Rock. The golden young lion and the fiery young oak, equally handsome and equally talented with a blade. They had pushed each other as children; they would continue to push each other as adults. If not stopped, the verbal sparring could continue for hours and go nowhere.

Tyrion let out a long breath and interrupted the exchange. “My brother didn’t even know about this…Hedge. It was my idea to go north. I had hoped we could find an opening or climb over it, hack our way through if nothing else.”

Ser Addam shook his head. “I’m afraid the road north has been closed. The Hedge is impervious to both steel and fire, and will eat anyone brave enough or stupid enough to venture too near.”

“It eats people?” Brienne said, agape.

“You saw the red flowers?” Ser Addam asked, turning his eyes toward Brienne. With a wave of his hand, he continued, “Those sinister blooms only grow where a man’s corpse has fed the Hedge. But this you already knew.”

“We honestly did not,” Tyrion said, leaning forward and staring into the knight’s eyes. “We are only travelling north seeking political asylum.”

“Maybe, that just might be the truth. For all the good it will do,” Ser Addam replied smugly. “The Hedge will soon be set ablaze, and you will be sent back to King’s Landing.”

“I thought you said fire couldn’t–” Tyrion began, only to stop suddenly, his eyes growing wide. “No, you wouldn’t–” 

The commander of the king’s forces only nodded. “We most definitely would. Unless, of course, you know of another way to defeat the Hedge.”

Appalled, Tyrion said, “Wildfire will obliterate the eastern stronghold. You would rather incinerate an entire castle and kill everyone inside instead of letting the North have the blasted thing?” 

“Yes, the king wishes for this conflict to end with utmost haste.” Ser Addam drew out the words in such a manner that Jaime could tell the knight would rather not resort to the use of wildfire.

“You know this is wrong,” Jaime sneered, standing and staring intently into the fiery oak’s face. “I can see it in your eyes.”

“Your own brother used wildfire to defend King’s Landing against the forces of Stannis Baratheon, lit Blackwater Bay ablaze,” Addam reasoned, rising to his feet and gesturing briskly toward a startled Tyrion. 

The younger Lannister stared in wide-eyed bewilderment as the argument between Jaime and Addam Marbrand continued to grow more heated. Taking a step backwards, Tyrion mumbled, “For Addam.”

Jaime looked at his brother, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion, before turning back to Addam. 

“Had I been there, I would have advised against it.” Laying both hand and hook on the large desk, leaning forward to glare into his friend’s eyes, Jaime spat out each word carefully. “It would have been better to let the city fall to Stannis.” 

Addam growled low and gravely. “You can’t seriously believe that.”

“Formraydan,” Tyrion stuttered.

Raising his voice to punctuate each word, Jaime sneered at his oldest friend, “You dishonor yourself as a knight of the realm even considering its use. Wildfire is a coward’s weapon!”

“You question my honor? You expect me to disobey my king and surrender the castle to that Northern rabble?” Waving his hand toward the north before turning back to Jaime, the knight growled deep and dark, “I am not you, Kingslayer! I am loyal to my king!”

“You are a coward!” Jaime’s voice was clipped and filled with dark rage. 

“For ray dan.”

“Don’t assume because we are friends–” Addam snarled back. 

In a sinister voice, Jaime reminded his old friend, “I killed the last man who threatened to use wildfire in my presence.” 

“That is quite enough!” Addam roared, clenching his fists tightly. “Strongboar, escort our prisoners to the dungeon. On the morrow, they will be sent back to King’s Landing to face the king’s justice–”

Tyrion drew in a deep breath and said clearly, “Frumræden!”

The candles burning on the sconces flickered, and the lord’s solar darkened slightly. A burnt amber haze spread through the chamber and a faint ticking, like the hands of a water clock, filled their air. 

“What the seven hells!” Addam Marbrand gasped in surprise. Turning to Strongboar, the commander of the king’s forces hissed, “Where did they go?” 

“They were right here!” Strongboar replied, equally loud, looking back at the door, which remained closed. “They couldn’t have gone far.”

“Tyrion?” Stunned, Jaime whispered, “What did you do?”

Brienne waved her hand in front of Strongboar. “Are we invisible? Can they hear us?”

“No, it was a time spell, we are now several minutes ahead of the rest of the castle. They can neither see nor hear us.” Tyrion chuckled as he walked over to the large desk and picked up the ancient magical tome.

“How long will it last?” Jaime asked curiously, looking at his two oldest friends. The knights inhaled sharply as, before their startled eyes, the ancient book suddenly disappeared from the desk.

“Not very long,” Tyrion replied, tucking the ancient tome into his tunic. “We best hurry.”

Jaime recovered his sword from a nearby table and hurried to the door; meanwhile, Brienne yanked Oarthkeeper from Strongboar’s belt.

“They’re still here!” Strongboar roared, reacting immediately as the sword disappeared from his belt, swinging a gauntleted fist at the air in front of him, which Brienne easily ducked.

“Let’s be on our way then, shall we?” Jaime said, pulling the door open and ushering Brienne and his brother into the corridor. 

The young guard startled as the door flung open. Not seeing anyone exit, he went back to staring blankly at the opposite wall. 

The fugitives hurried past the unsuspecting guard, and a moment later Ser Addam burst through the door, followed by Strongboar. 

“The prisoners have escaped!” Strongboar growled at the guard. “Did you see them?” 

The guard’s dark eyes widened as he shook his head. “No Ser? No one passed.” 

“Raise the alarm!” Ser Addam prompted the guard scathingly.

The man remained standing, looking around in confusion until Strongboar bellowed in his face, “What are you waiting for? Go!”

Meanwhile, Tyrion looked down the maze of corridors spreading out before them. “Do you know the way?” 

Brienne shook her head. “I’ve never been at the Twins before.” 

“I think the exit through the Great Hall is this way,” Jaime said, pointing down a long, dark passageway. 

Even though the castle was now on high alert, the harried soldiers they passed in the dark passages failed to notice the time travelers as they rapidly fled down the long corridor. At the end of the lengthy passageway, a postern gate was guarded by two soldiers. The guards jumped back in surprise when the iron portcullis suddenly opened by itself. 

Several men-at-arms standing guard on the far side of the gate also looked around in bewilderment as the portcullis opened and a moment later slammed shut of its own volition. 

“This place is cursed,” one of the men grunted nervously.

“Haunted by the ghosts of dead Starks,” another nodded in agreement.

A full moon lit the night sky as the three fugitives found themselves on the western side of the long stone-arch bridge connecting the two castles. From their vantage point, they could just make out the gate of the eastern stronghold across the long bridge. 

The eastern castle was blanketed by the verdant hedge, which spread widely across the bridge, only gradually stopping when it reached the halfway point of the river. Dozens of red flowers grew amongst the ivy and vines. 

“I think we took a wrong turn,” Tyrion said, ignoring the guards and turning back to the gate.

They hadn’t noticed the insistent dripping gradually slowing during their escape. With one final tick, the spell chose that moment to wear off. The three fugitives suddenly reappeared, causing the stunned guards to jump backwards. 

“You there!” Raising his blade, one of the guards shouted nervously, “Stop where you are!”

The portcullis opened and more soldiers burst through. Brienne pushed Tyrion behind her as the Raven Army advanced toward them. Drawing their swords, Jaime and Brienne met the soldiers, ringing metal against metal echoing across the river. 

“Another spell might be nice!” Jaime shouted over his shoulder at his brother as he dodged another attack. Gradually, they were being pushed across the bridge toward the suddenly agitated vines. 

“I’m trying!” Tyrion responded irritably as he flipped through the ancient tome and mumbled several unfamiliar words to no effect. 

The vines and ivy clinging to the rough stone began to undulate violently as the fighting neared the middle of the bridge. Brienne ducked just in time as a long vine darted past her head, coiling around the soldier she was fighting and pulling the struggling man into its dark mass. A moment later, a large red flower bloomed on the Hedge. 

“Quickly, this way!” A woman’s voice drew their attention to the east side of the long stone bridge.

Turning, they saw the postern gate of the eastern stronghold cleared of vines. A young woman wearing dark brown breeches and a long cape, with curly dark brown hair that fell to her shoulders, stood in front of the open portcullis, motioning the escaping prisoners forward. 

Vines jetted out from the Hedge as the fugitives ran across the expansive bridge, dodging the thorny projectiles, the screams of the soldiers their only pursuers. 

“Lady Reed, I presume,” Tyrion said breathlessly, looking up at the young woman after they had reached the east side of the river.

The young woman nodded and escorted them through the open gate. Once they were safely inside, the portcullis slammed down. Vines and ivy swelled and twisted hungrily, blanketing the entry of the eastern stronghold once again in thick foliage. On the stone bridge spanning the Green Fork, ten additional bright red flowers blossomed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are love <3


	13. The City of the Phoenix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanksto Sea_Spirit for beta'ing this fic.

Chapter Thirteen   
The City of the Phoenix

The city was a shining jewel resting on a pillow of luminous satin fog rolling in from the dark waters of Blackwater Bay, cold even in the warmth of the long spring. There was a time Ser Podrick Payne would have been excited to see King’s Landing rising above the mist. Over the course of the last three years, he had watched with pride as the capital was reborn, like a brightly hued phoenix rising from the ashes of its violent and fiery death. 

King’s Landing was smaller and far less populated than it had once been. Even though after the first hard years of repair and rebuilding, families had finally begun to return, the capital had yet to regain more than a third of its former population.

Although smaller, King’s Landing was so much more magnificent. Within the first year of Bran the Broken’s reign, the new water and sewer system that Lord Tyrion had designed was installed below the streets. Large cisterns insured all of the cities inhabitants’ access to clean water. Buildings damaged beyond repair were torn down and replaced by wide boulevards and verdant parkways that radiated outward like the petals of a flower from the Red Keep. There was at least one large public park in every district. 

Although the biggest change in the newly reborn city had to be the overwhelming stench, or rather the lack thereof. Once, the smell of shit and death exuded from the city’s pores and could be detected from at least five miles away. The capital still had a distinct aroma, as any large city would, although the wasting stench was overwhelmed by the stronger perfume of lemons and rich spices. 

King’s Landing had been reborn, but the Red Keep remained a collapsed ruin. Its broken towers rose over the city from atop Aegon's Hill like a skeletal hand lifting its sharp claws into the sky. The talons grew larger and more menacing as the king’s hunters escorted their prisoners, tied together back to back on a sturdy pony, through the wide boulevards leading up to the castle. 

Podrick, tied so he faced away from the Red Keep, couldn’t see the castle as it rose over the horizon. However, he knew the moment the Red Keep came into view, as the muscles on Arik’s back stiffened in dread.

“Everything is going to be okay.” Podrick’s voice was hollow as he whispered over his shoulder at the lad. He felt Arik nod. However, it was obvious from the stiffness in the boy’s back that Arik knew exactly how dire their current situation had become.

He knew it was inevitable, but Ser Podrick wasn’t looking forward to facing his brothers in the Kingsguard, returning as he was, a traitor to the crown he had sworn to protect. Podrick was relieved when the king’s hunters handed them over to the City Watch. 

The Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks, Ser Jayse Arrowwood, stepped forward to sneer scornfully at the disgraced knight, his words spat with contempt. “Not so special now, are we, Kingsguard?”

Raising his chin in defiance of the Commander of the Gold Cloaks, Podrick refused to reply. The repulsive man wanted Podrick to react; he only needed an excuse to order his men to brutalize the prisoners. That was something Podrick wasn’t willing to grant. 

Podrick expected they would be thrown in the black cells. With a rough shove to get them moving, the city guards escorted Podrick and Arik not to the black cells or the makeshift throne room in Meagor’s Holdfast. Instead, they were steered through the gardens and into the Red Keep’s small godswood. 

The king sat underneath the heart tree; the tall, thick oak soared majestically overhead. A spring breeze brushed the surrounding trees, sending ripples through their leaves like an ocean in the sky, its sweetly scented waves crashing onto a verdant shore.

To Podrick’s everlasting shame, two of his brothers stood guard behind the young monarch. Ser Grennan and Ser Cryus’ faces, partially hidden behind their helmets, were a mask of indifference.

“Oaks are but a pale imitation of the strength of a weirwood. Wouldn’t you agree? Alas, it is all we have and will have to do,” the king said as the prisoners approached.

“Yes, Your Grace.” Samwell Tarly, standing near the king, bowed his head in agreement.

“Ser Podrick,” the Raven King said, turning his dark, dull eyes first to Podrick and finally coming to rest on Arik, “and I believe the son of the late Kingslayer.”

Podrick’s heart dropped, and he laid a sympathetic hand on Arik’s neck. The lad’s lips trembled, but he definitely raised his chin, stiffly returning the king’s stare.

The king continued to watch as the youth tried to maintain his composure after hearing the news of his father’s death. “But you are not a Lannister, not even a Lannister bastard. Are you?” The Three-Eyed Raven didn’t wait for a reply. “You were born of lowborn parents, deep in the northwest mountains of the Riverlands, a very secluded region of little concern or interest to the rest of the realm. That was until the villain you now call ‘papa’ decided to engage the Northern army near the Whispering Wood.”

Arik’s breath hitched after hearing it had been Ser Jaime who commanded the men that destroyed his childhood home. He scarcely remembered the little shack in the mountains rising above the Whispering Wood. Arik recalled being happy, before soldiers in crimson armor came to slash and burn. His father, his real father, had never recovered from the loss of their home. 

After the battle, Braeden moved his family to the small village where his wife Pia had grown up and her parents still lived. Rushing Falls on the banks of the God’s Eye was a pleasant enough village, but it wasn’t home, and Braeden hated the small community of farmers and beekeepers. After a while, Arik’s father could only find solace for the loss of his mountains in the bottom of a tankard of strong ale. When the Mountain, Gregor Clegane attacked Rushing Falls, Braeden ran, abandoning his pregnant wife and young son to their fate. Arik hadn’t seen his real father since he was five years old; he didn’t really care, assuming the drunken coward dead. 

The Three-Eyed Raven looked up at the heart tree; like the face carved into the ancient oak, the Raven King’s features were a mask of indifference. “When I was a child, I found the heart tree in Winterfell disturbing. I once believed trees had no business having faces.” 

“Yes, Your Grace,” Samwell Tarly smiled down at the young monarch.

Turning his lackluster eyes back to the prisoners, the king asked dully, “Shall we begin?” 

Suddenly the king’s eyes shattered glassy white as his head lurched backward and his body grew limp as death.

Out of the corner of his eye, Podrick noticed Arik startle. Turning slowly, he was confronted by dead white eyes staring back at him from Arik’s face.

“Much better,” Arik said, bouncing on the balls of his feet before looking up at the young knight. “You know I was only a few years younger than this boy when the Kingslayer pushed me from the old tower.”

“Your Grace.” Samwell Tarly stepped forward and uttered nervously, “We talked about this. The strain on your body–”

“Samwell, please, no more talk of the Decay.” The Three-Eyed Raven said, waving away the Grandmaester’s fears and concerns. “Let me enjoy a final walk through the gardens.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Sam bowed his head and stepped back.

“Ser Podrick,” the king said through stolen lips, his glassy white eyes travelling the expanse of the royal gardens as he motioned for the young knight to follow. “Walk with me.”

The king, controlling Arik’s limbs, didn’t wait for a response as he strolled farther into the godswood. Ser Grennan stepped forward and motioned for Podrick to follow the king. 

“I would have preferred the younger child,” the king said after they had walked a fair distance. Exiting the gardens, they made their way toward the training yard. “I don’t suppose you know where he is?”

Podrick shook his head, still a little shaken that he was talking to the king instead of Arik. Glancing behind him, Podrick saw Ser Grennan following them discreetly from a distance. 

“Pity. With his intelligence, young Kaylan would have made an excellent Three-Eyed Raven.”

“Your Grace?” Podrick mumbled. “I don’t understa–“

“No matter,” the king replied. As they passed across the training grounds, the Raven King stopped to watch the squires training in the yard. “Did you know, Ser Podrick, as a child I wanted to be a knight?” 

“I did not, Your Grace.”

“I can feel the blood of the First Men coursing through this child’s veins.” The king smiled, suddenly changing the subject as he turned and headed toward the castle forge. 

Once inside, the Raven King looked around, taking in the sights and sounds of the busy workshop. The hard flagstone floors, dusty and cluttered, pales of brackish water and racks of partially made weapons and armor. The heat radiating from the glowing furnace warmed the workshop, making it stuffy and much warmer inside than out. The castle blacksmith glanced up from his labor as the strange young man and the two knights entered.

“Can I help you, my lords?” the sweating man asked, pausing from his work and wiping his dirty hands on his thick leather apron.

“Out!” Ser Grennan barked at the blacksmith and his two young apprentices.

The apprentices jumped and immediately stopped their task of stoking the furnace and hurried to the door. The blacksmith didn’t look pleased at being ordered from his own workshop; nonetheless, he bowed and followed his young apprentices outside. 

Once they were alone, the king weaved through the weapon racks and worktables, making his way over to the furnace. The Raven King paused and looked down, clenching both of his hands into tight fists, releasing and clenching his fingers several more times. 

“Right-handed,” King Brandon said, turning to look at Podrick with dead white eyes. “My sister Arya is left-handed. I had to be sure.”

Without warning, the Three-Eyed Raven pressed his left hand and forearm, or rather Arik’s left hand and forearm, against the heated surface of the forge. An unsettling sizzling sound was followed by the rancid scent of burning flesh as the skin on Arik’s hand and arm melted away. 

Podrick lunged forward, only to be stopped by the gauntleted hand of Ser Grennan landing on his shoulder. The Kingsguard yanked Podrick around so they stood face to face, shaking his head and resting his other hand on his sword aggressively. 

Podrick could see the horror behind him, reflected in the knight’s eyes, as Ser Grennan whispered harshly, “Don’t interfere.”

Podrick tried to shake the other knight’s hand from his shoulder to no avail. Finally, the Raven King pulled the arm away from the furnace; some charred flesh remained stuck to the heated surface of the forge. 

Cradling the scorched arm, the Three-Eyed Raven looked down at the injury before a smug smile widened across Arik’s young face. “There will be a scar, maybe some loss of dexterity in his off arm. Really, only a small price to pay. Bloodraven lost an eye. I lost the use of my legs.”

Without warning, the king lurched backwards and his eyes flickered violently. An instant later, Arik’s dark brown eyes appeared. Gasping for air as his consciousness abruptly rose to the forefront, Arik stood for a moment staring down at his left arm. Shock, fear and horror rolled across the boy’s face, soon followed by a shrill scream that echoed through the forge.

Podrick helped Arik outside, laying him down on the grass. The knight leaned over, turning Arik’s arm to inspect the damage. The burn was severe and deep; the outer layers of skin had been burned away, leaving behind blisters, which were already beginning to form around the blackened leathery skin.

“Your Grace,” Podrick heard Ser Grennan announce. Looking up, he saw the king approaching from the godswood.

Grandmaester Tarly pushed the Raven King’s wheeled chair into the training yard and behind them followed Ser Cryus along with Ser Jayse and three Gold Cloaks, their chainlink and plate armor clinking softly as they approached. 

When Samwell saw Arik, he hurried forward, his maester’s chain clinking together as he knelt down to examine the boy’s arm. The grandmaester quickly applied a salve and wrapped the wound. “The bandages will have to be changed every day, and fresh salve applied if you don’t want the wound to fester.”

“Why?” Podrick rose and stepped between the king and Arik, only to be stopped in mid-step by his brothers in the Kingsguard. “Why? He is just a boy. What could he have possibly ever done to you?”

“Once, I asked the same question,” the king said emotionlessly.

“This was revenge, then?” 

“Of course not. I am not so petty,” the Raven King replied dully. Turning blank eyes toward Podrick, the Three-Eyed Raven said plainly and without emotion, “I am dying and the realm needs a king. The Three-Eyed Raven needs a host, preferably someone descended from the First Men. Ser Jaime has unwittingly supplied me with two heirs, although you have inconveniently lost the preferred choice. The boy’s injury was necessary to begin the process of becoming the Three-Eyed Raven.”

Arik reached up and grabbed Podrick’s arm, moaning hoarsely as he struggled to his feet. “Please Ser Podrick, I don't want to be the king. I don’t want to be a Three-Eyed Raven.”

The king ignored Arik and continued, “You will train young Arik as your squire, until it is time to begin the transformation. The Kingslayer stole away my dreams of knighthood. The son will return what the father has stolen.”

“I will not,” Podrick said, lifting his chin in defiance.

“Why not?” the Raven King replied. “I see the truth in your mind. You believe the boy would make a fine knight.”

“I cannot in good conscience,” Podrick said, shaking his head. “Not without Ser Jaime’s consent, and Arik’s father is not here to give his permiss–”

“Isn’t he?” the king interrupted, turning toward the tallest of the three Gold Cloaks.

“No,” Arik gasped as the man stepped forward, pulling off his helmet to reveal a thick mane of shaggy dark brown hair and a nose rosy from years of heavy drinking.

“Braeden of the Whispering Wood, does Ser Podrick have your permission to train your son as his squire with the intent of becoming a knight and eventually the king?” the king asked the Gold Coak tediously.

“Of course he does, Your Grace,” the man replied, turning to the Raven King and attempting a timid bow. 

As the man spoke, the Raven King turned his dull eyes toward Ser Podrick.

Anger rose on Arik’s face. Turning to his estranged father, he cried, "No, you left! You don’t get to tell me what to do!”

“Boy, you best listen to good King Brandon,” the man said angrily.

Arik shook his head and spat at his father, growling like a caged lion, “I will not!”

“Very well.” The Raven King nodded and turned to Ser Grennan. “Please escort the…prisoners to the black cells. A few days in the darkness should help them see reason.”

-o0o-

The black cells, deep below the surface of the Red Keep, were cold, dark and dank. The stairwell was poorly lit and the rough stone steps crumbled underfoot as Podrick and Arik inched farther down into the darkness.

The fat gaoler carried a torch as he led the way into the dungeon, while two men of the City Watch followed behind Podrick and Arik, making sure they kept moving, roughly shoving them in the back when their pace slowed.

“You best stop!” Ser Grennan growled, low and dark, clasping his sword in warning. The knight walked at the end of the procession, behind the two Gold Cloaks. “No matter what he has or hasn’t done, Ser Podrick was still a brother in the Kingsguard.” 

The Gold Cloaks sneered back at the knight but refrained from further aggression toward the prisoners. 

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, their disheveled gaoler led them down a long corridor and past several badly damaged cells. The heavy oak doors hung on loose hinges, and stone and debris from the collapsed ceiling littered the hall and empty dark chambers.

Finally stopping in front of the only intact door, the gaoler dug out his keys. Barking a warning to the poor wretch already occupying the cell, the disheveled man turned the key and pushed the heavy door open, waving his torch inside the dark room. “Rise and shine, wasters. You got yourselves a couple ’o cellmates.”

The Gold Cloaks shoved the prisoners inside, and the door slammed shut. The chatter of keys and the slight click of the lock resonated through the door. It would take several minutes before their eyes could adjust to the faint light. Before that could happen, a voice rose from the darkness.

“Ser Podrick Fooking Payne,” the gruff voice said from the shadows. “What the seven hells are you doing here?”

“Lord Bronn?” Podrick gasped, squinting into the darkness. “I could ask the same of you.”

“That cunt king wanted Highgarden’s army,” the former sellsword replied. “So I told the little fucker just where he could go.”

“My Lord Husband,” a female voice cried from the darkness of the cell, “please, the children.”

“Ain’t nothing they haven’t heard before,” Bronn snorted and turned back to Podrick. “So, what have you done now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are love


	14. Dandelion Wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Sea_Spirit for beta'ing this chapter.

Chapter Fourteen   
Dandelion Wine 

Standing at the window, Jaime watched as the midday rain battered against the sill. He wasn’t really listening as Tyrion and Meera Reed traded banter. Jaime was a man of action; he would leave the back-and-forth repartee to more capable and wittier minds. The only thing Jaime knew was that he wanted his sons back.

Rubbing his knuckles into his eyes, Jaime turned away from the window to look around the makeshift war room set up in one of the small halls of the Twins’ eastern stronghold. Spread across a large table in the center of the chamber lay a map of the northern Riverlands, including the twin castles and the surrounding region. Small markers depicting the Raven King’s army were spread across the western bank of the Green Fork. The Crannogmen had used a length of long green ribbon to represent the Hedge, weaving down from the northeast.

The Crannogmen themselves, standing around the table, were smaller in stature and darker than the average Westerosi. Both the men and the women were dressed similarly, in loose tunics and leggings in muted tones of greens, greys and earthy browns. At the end of the table, the Lady of Greywater Watch, Meera Reed, traded verbal blows with Tyrion. 

“I think and I drink, it’s all a process really,” Tyrion explained dryly before drinking deeply from the glass of dandelion wine he held in his hand, squinting one eye shut as the unfamiliar and tangy drink rolled across his tongue. The unusual wine was fermented and usually only drunk by the Crannogmen. Much to Tyrion’s displeasure, it appeared to be the only source of alcohol in the castle.

“And what you think is that we should abandon our advantage?” Meera Reed asked, leaning forward and holding Tyrion’s gaze. “This castle blocks the only overland route into the north. We have made sure of that.”

“I think we are all in danger if we remain here,” Tyrion said, motioning at their audience, many of whom were lords from the Neck. 

Without taking her eyes off Tyrion, she said calmly, “Lord Fenn, would you be so kind as to find Maester Gerynn? Have him bring the messages we received from King’s Landing.”

“I hadn’t realized the Crannogmen retained maesters,” Tyrion said as he poured another glass of dandelion wine.

Meera Reed retorted dryly, “He was here when we arrived and, as I understand it, maesters are loyal to the seat they are assigned, regardless of who sits on that seat. And as I currently hold this castle, he is mine.”

“What should be and what is are often two separate entities, my lady. You should be careful in whom you place your trust,” Tyrion warned as he raised his glass of dandelion wine to the Lady of Greywater Watch. Seen through the pungent yellow liquid, Meera Reed looked almost ethereal. Her skin took on a greenish-grey hue, and her eyes appeared muted yellow. He could almost believe the rumors true, that the Reeds and the rest of the Crannogmen were descended from the Children of the Forest.

“Believe me, I am,” Meera Reed said matter-of-factly, following Tyrion with her eyes as he walked back to the map table.

A few minutes later, a knock on the door announced the return of Lord Gilian Fenn. The Lord of Saltmeadow Keep escorted an extremely tall and lanky young maester barely out of his teens into the chamber. 

“My lady, you wanted to see the missives from the king…um…the southern king?” the awkward young maester asked, bowing his tall frame slightly before handing Meera several slips of rolled parchment.

“Thank you, Maester Gerynn, that will be all,” Meera replied as she took the messages from the maester’s hand.

“My lady,” the young maester stammered, looking around the room hopefully, “I can advise in matters of diplomacy.”

“No, that will be–” Meera started, before noticing Tyrion’s amused smirk. Turning back to the young maester, she said with a honeyed smile, “On second thought, please stay, Maester Gerynn. Your advice will be invaluable.”

Maester Gerynn’s face split open in a wide grin. Before the lords of the Neck had seized the eastern stronghold, Ser Myles Smallwood, the decrepit old knight who Lord Edmure had installed as castellan of the Twins, had never allowed him to sit in on strategy meetings. 

Sitting down on a long bench next to Brienne, the lanky young maester’s eyes grew wide as he bristled with excitement, having finally been included in the action. However, there wasn’t much action to be had; Lady Meera was silently reading through the messages, Lord Tyrion was drinking, Ser Jaime had resumed staring out the window, and the lords of the Neck were whispering quietly amongst themselves and casting distrustful glances at both the Lannister brothers. The young maester sighed and looked down at his hands. Sadly, he still wasn’t included.

“I know how you feel”, Brienne said, catching the young maester’s eye. “It will get better. You are young and untested, and until only recently retained by their enemies. Stay true to your oaths, and they will come around.” 

“Yes, my lady…Ser Brienne,” the youthful maester replied with a weak smile. “I am just happy to finally be included. But, are…are–”

“Are?”

“Are war councils usually so…um, dull? The reenactments of war councils we practiced at the Citadel were always so exciting.”

Brienne laughed. “Sometimes reality isn’t as much fun as make believe.” 

“The king has ordered his forces to use wildfire to burn you out.” Tyrion finally broke the dull silence, shaking his head as he made his way back to a side table and the nearly empty bottle of dandelion wine. He shook the bottle disappointedly before pouring what remained of the cringe-inducing wine into his glass. The pungent taste was growing on him. Turning back to the Crannogmen, he said urgently, “Even if your magical Hedge can resist wildfire, the heat from the blast will surely cook everyone inside this castle alive.” 

Looking down at Tyrion suspiciously, Meera Reed crossed her arms in front of her chest and hissed, “I believe you are either drunk or still working for Brandon Stark. Maybe both.”

“Do you want to know what I believe?” Tyrion glared up at the stubborn young woman. “I believe in a fortnight you lot will be nothing more than a roasted frog dinner, fit only for the Raven King’s dinner plate.” 

Several of the lords of the Neck grumbled in irritation at Tyrion’s reference to the disrespectful term of frogmen—a vulgar slur, which many in the North and the Southern Kingdoms still regularly called the inhabitants of the Neck. Lady Reed held up her hand, stopping her bannermen from responding to the insult.

“Maester Gerynn.” Meera Reed’s voice interrupted the growing tension. Holding up a slip of parchment, she said, “Would you be so kind as to read this missive from King Brandon?”

“Yes, my lady,” the maester said, jumping up quickly, as only a young man could. He hurryied over to take the message from the Lady of Greywater Watch’s outstretched hand. The young maester cleared his throat, finally having the opportunity to prove his worth. 

“Brandon of House Stark, first of his name, King of the Andals, Rhoynar and First Men, Protector of the Six Kingdoms, demands the heads of the traitors Lord Tyrion Lannister and his brother, the Kingslayer–” 

Maester Gerynn looked up and swallowed timidly.

“Go on,” Meera urged, “what else does it say?”

“The…the Kingslayer, Ser Jaime Lannister, as well as the safe return of Lady Brienne of Tarth, believed to be held against her will. Be warned, harboring our enemies is an act of aggression against the Six Kingdoms. This is an internal matter and does not involve the North.”

Brienne huffed. “I am not being held against my will.” 

“As if anyone could,” Jaime said as he sat down next to her and ran his thumb across Brienne’s cheek affectionately. 

“So, do you intend to return our severed heads to King’s Landing?” Tyrion asked, raising his chin in defiance. 

“It is tempting,” Meera Reed said, pinching the bridge of her nose. Finally turning to the lanky young maester, she asked, “What do you think, Maester Gerynn?”

“Any other king would want to see the heads of his enemies with his own eyes, to insure they were truly dead.” Maester Gerynn looked down at the message, biting his lower lip. “But doesn’t King Brandon have visions? Wouldn’t he already know if Lord Tyrion and Ser Jaime were dead or not? Even without their heads?”

Tyrion looked at Brienne and Jaime, not sure if he should reveal all their secrets. 

Brienne met his eyes and nodded. You have to give trust before you can receive trust.

Sighing, Tyrion pulled the amulet out from under his tunic and explained, without giving too much information away, how the talismans hid them from the king’s prying eyes. Tyrion wisely decided to leave out much of their story and who had made the magical wards, assuming Brother Cadfael wouldn’t want his identity and abilities known throughout Southern Kingdoms and the North.

Maester Gerynn looked from the amulet to Tyrion’s face and said, “King Brandon can’t spy on you?” Turning back to Lady Meera, the young maester continued, “But he knows the Lannisters are here because they escaped through their lines. As long as he believes them to be holed up in the Twins, he won’t risk using wildfire. Without his visions, he could never be sure if they were truly dead.”

“So that’s it,” Tyrion groaned, swirling the wine around the bottom of his glass. “We are to remain here as your prisoners, or should I say, your shields against wildfire.”

“No, the queen wishes your presence in Winterfell,” Meera Reed shook her head and replied. “On the morrow, you will be smuggled out of the castle and escorted north. We will deal with the wildfire threat in our own way.”

“No!” Jaime said, his voice deep and filled with dark rage. He had remained calm long enough. 

Meera Reed turned to stare at Jaime. “I’m afraid you have no–“ 

“My sons are still missing!” Jaime roared as his hand crashed down on the table.

“And you can take that up with Queen Sansa,” Meera said calmly, facing down the angry lion. “When you arrive at Winterfell.”

-o0o-

Brienne could almost hear the whispers in the dark corners of the castle, only this time it wasn’t the Raven King’s malicious shadow creatures weeping tales of sorrow. In her mind, Brienne could see the lives cut short and the cries of Lady Catelyn, King Robb and all the Stark bannermen who had died at the Twins. Their ghosts remained cloistered in the dark corridors, twisted into the muted grey stone of the mirrored castle’s thick walls.

As Brienne stood in the middle of the bedchamber the Crannogmen had assigned her, a single tear rolled down her face. She wrapped her arms around her waist as another wave of sorrow scoured Brienne’s soul. 

“Brienne, let me in.” The door rattled and Jaime’s voice hissed through the cracks in the thick wood.

Throwing open the door, Brienne fell into Jaime’s arms. She felt him wrap his strong arms around her waist. 

“I missed you so much,” Jaime whispered into her hair, his breath tickling her ear as he walked her backwards into her chamber, slamming the door shut behind them.

Brienne could tell Jaime was still worried about his sons. None of the Crannogmen patrols they had asked after their arrival had seen Podrick Payne or Jaime’s sons trying to cross into the North, which could only mean they were still trapped in the south or dead. Brienne knew she couldn’t burden him with her memories of Lady Catelyn. For now, she would lay her sorrow aside.

“Jaime–” Brienne started, only to have her voice betray her, cracking in harsh gulps. She buried her head against Jaime’s neck so he wouldn’t notice her tears.

“What’s wrong?” Jaime said, lifting her head to look into her eyes, wiping a rebellious tear from her cheek. 

Reaching up to grasp his hand, rubbing her thumb across his fingers, Brienne could only shake her head. 

“It’s okay to remember, to grieve Lady Stark,” Jaime said as she pulled away from his arms. He knew the ghost of Catelyn Stark had haunted Brienne ever since their arrival at the Twins. 

Brienne shook her head again, replying, “Arik and Kaylan should be our only concern.” 

Jaime ran his hand through his hair; turning, he sat down on the bed and looked up at Brienne. “I always thought she was rash and rather stupid. I believed her weak for freeing a valuable hostage for a couple of children.”

Brienne sat down next to Jaime and said firmly, “Lady Catelyn was–”

Jaime raised his hand, stopping her in mid-sentence. “I know, ‘an honorable lady.’ She was more than that though, wasn’t she? She loved her children, would do anything to get them back.” 

“She did.”

“I do believe I finally understand her,” Jaime said, collapsing backwards onto the bed and looking up at the ceiling. “I would do anything, trade anyone, to get my sons back.”

Brienne leaned down on her elbow, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face. “They’re with Ser Podrick, and if I know my former squire, he won’t give up. He won’t stop until Arik and Kaylan are safely in the North.” 

“You heard what Lady Reed said,” Jaime retorted irritably. “The Twins is the only overland route into the North, and at present it is being blocked by a rather large army.”

“Then we will plead with Queen Sansa for aid.”

Jaime scoffed. “Wouldn’t that be ironic, a Lannister begging a Stark for help finding his missing children.”

“Jaime.” Brienne clenched his arm. “I swear to you, no matter how long it takes, we will find them.”

“I know,” Jaime replied, smiling weakly into Brienne’s eyes. “And if you were any other person, I would call you a fool. But when Brienne of Tarth swears to find lost children, she always succeeds.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are love


	15. Midday Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Sea_Spirit for beta'ing this fic. and likewise thank you to everyone else who left comments and kudos I do enjoy reading them.

Chapter Fifteen  
Midday Rain

Puddles of the midday rain still remained, like a moat protecting a castle. Only this castle was a dilapidated old inn, loose paint and cracked stone its battle scars. One might say the old lodge had seen better days. But that wouldn't be true; the inn and the decrepit old stables, even the youth chopping wood, appeared to have just been born ugly.

More than a few horses waited outside the inn, tied to a long hitching post. Despite its shabby and disreputable appearance, the inn appeared full. The sun was already sinking below the trees in the west; finding lodging at another inn would be near impossible. 

"You there! Have you any rooms?" Arya shouted to the youth. His thin mouth dropped open as they approached, which only succeeded in making the lad's already minuscule chin disappear completely into his neck.

“Rooms?” the lad asked, in wide-eyed wonderment. 

"Is he stupid or something?" Kaylan whispered down at Arya from his perch on Sandor's long back.

Arya looked back at the boy and shook her head. They must look quite the odd trio: a woman, small in stature but armed with several knives, two swords and a fierce demeanor; a hideously scarred black stallion; and a small child, who looked even more minuscule hanging onto the warhorse’s large back 

The chinless youth looked from Kaylan back to Arya and nodded. "Rooms? Oh aye, talk to the master, he be inside." The youth then pointed to the rickety old barn, and eyeing Sandor nervously, said, "Stables for thee...um, ‘orse be ‘ight ‘ere."

After making sure Sandor was fed and watered and his black coat combed until it shined, Arya and Kaylan made their way inside the inn and found an open table near the back of the common room.

"Never ate in an inn before," Kaylan said as they sat down, running his finger across the surface of the stained table. "I thought it would be…be less sticky. Why is it sticky?"

"Best not to think about it," Arya replied dryly. Judging by the condition of the establishment, the stickiness could be any number of things, each more disturbing than the last.

The inside of the old inn was in no better condition than the outside. Oddly, the establishment was crowded; even odder, most of the patrons were not even drinking. The only alcohol being served appeared to have come along with a meal. Oddest of all, the serving girls who wove through the crowded common room remained mostly unmolested. A truly bizarre situation for an out-of-the-way inn of dubious repair located in the northern Riverlands.

"Arry?" A voice emerged from the din of chatter in the noisy common room.

"Hello, Hot Pie," Arya said. If she was surprised to see her old friend, she didn’t let it show. “You’re not at the Crossroads?”

“I saved up my wages and bought this little gem,” the chubby innkeeper replied, setting a heavy tray of pies and mugs of ale on the table and waving his arms around the inn before sitting down next to Kaylan and Arya.

“Gem? This place is a dum–” Kaylan huffed, only to be met by Arya’s cold grey eyes.

“It looks like you’re doing well. Business is good,” Arya said, reaching for two of the steaming pies and handing one to Kaylan before plunging her fork into the other.

“People seem to like my breads and pies,” Hot Pie said as he motioned toward the pies Arya had pilfered from his tray. “However, I lose coin every night on the rooms. No one is traveling north these days.”

“Oh, why is that?” Arya prompted between bits of a meat pie.

“You don’t know?” Hot Pie said, aghast.

Shaking her head, Arya reached for a mug of strong ale and took a long drink before responding, “I only just returned to Westeros from across the Sunset Sea. Why are people not traveling north?”

“You sister, the Queen of the North–” Hot Pie began, before he stopped and looked at Arya in wonderment. “Hey! I just realized, you’re a princess!”

“No,” Arya said darkly, hoping the chubby innkeeper wouldn’t travel down that path. “I am not.”

However, Hot Pie seemed insistent on exploring that particular dark and foreboding path. “But you are. Your sister is Queen of the North, yes? And your brother’s the King of the Six um... Southern Kingdoms. You’re a princess twice over.” Shaking his head and grinning widely, he added, “Imagine, royalty visiting my humble establishment.” 

“Hot Pie,” Arya growled a stern warning.

Hot Pie hooted, throwing his hands in the air. “Okay, okay, your secret is safe with me.”

“You still haven’t answered my question. Why are people no longer traveling north?”

“Your sister closed off the North, didn’t she?” Hot Pie replied. “Built a giant wall to keep people out, or keep people in. It really depends on who you are talking to.”

-o0o-

“The fucker isn’t dead?” Bronn scoffed after Podrick finished explaining how he and Arik had ended up in the black cells. “I should have known, he was too much of a cu–”

“My lord husband!” Lady Lollys gasped, covering the ears of two-year-old Tyrion Blackwater with her hands.

Lord Bronn chuckled wickedly and said, “My lady wife has made it her life’s work to prevent me from engaging in any activity remotely enjoyable, swearing included.”

“For the best, probably,” Podrick replied dryly. 

“Like I said,” Bronn snorted, looking at his wife in the dim light before saying sarcastically, “I should have known Jaime Lannister was too…obnoxious to just roll over and die like a normal person.”

“Fooker,” Tyrion Blackwater’s small voice piped through the dark cell.

“That’s my boy.” Bronn’s face cracked open in a wide grin as he slapped his leg in mirth. 

“No! Baby, no, we do not use such words,” Lollys cried, aghast.

Standing, Bronn continued to chuckle as he wandered over to the dark corner, the agreed-upon spot for taking a piss. As he relieved himself, he considered the story Podrick had just told. He added the young knight’s tale together with what he already knew, or had guessed, about the Raven King, and a plan began to form in Bronn’s mind. 

Bronn had always thought it rather odd that Jaime Lannister had run back into his sister’s arms only weeks after finding out Cersei had ordered his and Tyrion’s death. Now that he thought about it, he realized that more than just a few people had acted out of character over the last few years. 

When Tyrion had first returned to Westeros with his Dragon Queen, he had gotten sloppy, making mistake after stupid mistake. At the time, Bronn assumed it was the strain caused by the war against his family and the looming battle against the dead, and after that the descent into madness and subsequent death of his beloved queen. 

Varys had also gone against his nature, turning on Daenerys Targaryen all because he had a bad feeling. The Spider didn’t react to feelings; he acted on cold hard facts. Apparently for a reason, because in the end those feelings were what had gotten Varys torched.

If it was only the Lannister brothers, Bronn could write it off. Their mistakes only proved what he already knew: the Lannisters were human after all and not golden lions. However, some of Bronn’s other acquaintances, people in the underworld, had also begun to behave oddly. 

Although, not everyone. Certain pirates still lay in wait off the coast of Blackwater Bay, preying on passing merchant vessels. In the dead of night, a few smugglers still slipped into the capital to peddle their contraband wares. Several of the more industrious Gold Cloaks continued to extort bribes from the merchants in the city’s markets.

It would be all too easy to dismiss these men as soulless, evil criminals beyond redemption. But Bronn knew better; while most of the criminal activity taking place under the nose of the king was done maliciously, some was done with more noble intentions. There was a certain thief operating out of the Street of Silk who gave most of her ill-gotten gains to the poor. Rebels, agitators, idealistic malcontents all continued to operate unimpinged throughout King’s Landing and the greater southern realm. 

Bronn began to build a mental picture of the men and women who had somehow escaped the king’s shadowy justice, himself included. They were usually smart, crafty and driven, people who possessed an inner strength and knew exactly who and what they were. Was that the key?

_You crippled bastard, if you can hear me, I want you to know that you’re a dead man. _ Bronn directed his thoughts upward to the Three-Eyed Raven. If the king could read his mind, Bronn knew he would never see the light of day again. He took the chance because he had to be sure.

Turning back to Podrick and Arik, Bronn said coldly, “Now, let me tell you what’s going to happen. You, or should I say we, are going to accept the king’s offer and train the boy in all those fine knightly virtues.”

“I won’t!” Arik replied stubbornly. “I don’t want to be the king, and I don’t want to be the Three-Eyed Raven.”

“You will do as you are told, farm boy,” Bronn growled, jabbing Arik’s chest with his finger. “Young Pod, with my help, of course, will take over your training in exchange for all of our immediate release.”

“What are you planning?” Ser Podrick asked.

“For now, getting us the seven hells out of this cell,” Bronn replied darkly, refusing to say more.

When the guard arrived with their putrid lunch, Bronn told the man to pass a message along to the king. By the end of the day, the prisoners were moved into much warmer and dryer cells in the Maiden Vault.

Bronn smiled smugly as he watched his wife putter happily around their new chamber. After weeks in near darkness, the small, light-drenched apartment almost felt like a grand salon. He knew, as the Lord and Lady of Highgarden, they should really feel insulted by the meager accommodations. Likewise, they should be offended by the armed guards who stood outside their door and starting tomorrow would follow them around the Red Keep. 

However, Bronn had slept in much worse, and Lollys was a simple and kind woman and it didn’t take much to make her happy. The guards wouldn’t be a problem, either; when the time came, Bronn could easily slip his family past them. He supposed he would let Podrick Payne and the boy tag along; it wouldn’t hurt to have Tyrion and Jaime Lannister owing him once again.

-o0o-

The ground was more of a sodden, rain-soaked swamp than a training yard. The sky had darkened during the afternoon rain showers, leaving behind a lingering drizzle and many murky puddles. A few boys no older than Arik, young recruits of the City Watch, were sparring in the yard. They looked more like swamp creatures than boys as they inelegantly slid about the muddy yard.

Several Gold Cloaks in chain link and plate armor stood under a stone arch at the far side of the training yard, watching and laughing in amusement whenever one of the young recruits fell face down into the mud. 

“You expect us to start training in the rain and mud?” Ser Podrick asked and waved at the City Watch’s recruits with contempt. “And with that lot?”

The animosity between the City Watch and the Kingsguard, always present, had only grown worse after they were forced to share a single barracks. Ser Podrick felt his ire rise as he watched the Gold Cloaks laughing across the yard. Even though he had been dismissed from the Kingsguard, Podrick still felt allegiance to that order of knights.

“Need I remind you, I was once Commander of the City Watch, or as you call them, that lot,” Bronn laughed sarcastically.

“I remember,” Podrick responded dryly,.“I remember when you rounded up all the suspected criminals and–”

Bronn crossed his arms, smirking down at Podrick before raising his hand to stop the young knight in mid-sentence. “As well, a young knight must learn to fight in all types of weather: rain, sleet, snow and ice.” 

Podrick twitched slightly. 

“How ‘bout you, farm boy?” Bronn turned to Arik and pointed back at the young recruits practicing in the muddy yard. “Do you think you are too good to train with…that lot?” 

“I don’t want to train with them or anyone,” Arik grumbled.

“Oh, you will.” Bronn gripped Arik’s right arm and shook him roughly before sneering into his face. “Someday, you might lead these men into battle and possibly to their deaths. You should at least know their names.”

With a hard shove, Bronn pushed Podrick and Arik out into the drizzling rain of the mud-soaked training yard. Podrick led Arik through a series of practice exercises, taking care to go easy on the lad’s still-healing left arm. 

Meanwhile, Bronn wandered over to the Gold Cloaks watching from under the stone arch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are love


	16. The Ambassador of Tyrosh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to The Witch of the Vale
> 
> Three years after the destruction of King’s landing, while visiting the Vale discovered Jaime didn't die in King's Landing. Now they have to flee to the north before the Raven King can plan his revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments on the last chapter, I hope everyone enjoys this next installment. Special thanks to Sea_Spirit for proofing this work.
> 
> The Witch of the Vale and the Raven King are works of fan-fiction based on the HBO TV show "Game of Thrones," and the books by George R.R. Martin.

Chapter Sixteen  
The Ambassador of Tyrosh

The queen’s solar overlooked Winterfell’s courtyard. Sitting on a high-backed cushioned chair, Queen Sansa drew her cloak tight against the chill of northern spring. The Queen of the North’s gaze fell away from the window and back to the diminutive man sitting across from her. The ambassador from Tyrosh was a small man, maybe only a head or so taller than Queen Sansa’s first husband, Tyrion Lannnister. He wasn’t a dwarf, but the petite man was fine featured and slight in stature. 

The ambassador reached up and tugged on his neatly trimmed purple goatee as he considered the Queen of the North. “You are so young, Your Grace, as is your realm.” The man’s words rolled across his tongue haughtily; his soft voice reminded the queen of the cooing of doves, which she had first seen in Red Keep so many years ago. “And commerce is such a…a nuanced topic. Maybe one of your advisors–” 

Sansa raised her hand, cutting the man off in mid-sentence. His meaning was abundantly clear; he would prefer to negotiate with someone older and male. 

The ambassador stopped his tutting and bowed his head slightly, looking up at the queen through half-lidded purple eyes. Even though the ambassador projected an ethereal charm, Sansa suspected the man was a snake, and he was definitely hiding something. 

As much as Sansa loathed the man’s condescending attitude, the North needed allies. The Hedge had cut off all trade between the Southern Kingdoms and the North. Trade that included shipments of grain from the Reach. Tyrosh was one of the few cities in Essos still willing to negotiate a trade agreement with the fledgling Kingdom of the North. 

Sansa smiled politely and replied, “I am sure I can manage the nuances of exchanging one item for another.”

A sudden knock drew their attention to the door. Grateful for the distraction, Sansa nodded slightly to the guard standing behind her chair, silently ordering him to see who was at the door. 

A moment later, Maester Wolkan hesitantly stepped into the chamber and bowed as his eyes fell on the young queen. “Your Grace, your…the um…a package from the Twins has arrived.”

Sensing an opportunity to escape from her current predicament, Sansa stood quickly, maybe just a little too quickly. “Ambassador Dehattus,” the queen purred and nodded slightly in his direction, “please forgive me. I must see to this matter at once.”

Rojelio Dehattus replied with a slight dip of his head and a fluttering of his amethyst eyes. Watching the young queen hurry from the chamber, the ambassador was acutely aware, even though she had tried to hide the relief in her voice, the young queen was eager for a reprieve from their negotiations. He smiled to himself; Rojelio knew talk of trade and exchange rates were tedious, as he had intended them to be. The ambassador had also intentionally mentioned the queen’s age and inexperience to agitate her further. He hadn’t spent five years in the courts of Yi Ti without picking up the nuances of courtly parleys. 

Sansa had changed, grown wiser and more astute in the years since Rojelio had last seen her in the court of King’s Landing shortly before King Joffrey’s death. The girl he remembered was a frightened young child, alone in that nest of vipers. He was proud of her; she had grown into a leader and, like the harsh winters in the north, a true force of nature. However, his fondness for the young queen wouldn’t stop him from taking advantage of her youth and naivety. He had a job in Winterfell, one more important than even securing trade with the vast northern kingdom. 

Rising to his feet, the Tyroshi ambassador followed in the young queen’s wake as she made her way swiftly down the corridor to the throne room. The northern royal court, sitting at tables surrounding a wide central aisle, rose to their feet as the queen elegantly swept toward the throne raised on a dais near the front of the hall. After taking her seat on the high-backed weirwood throne, the queen motioned for the court to sit. 

Having followed the queen into the throne room, Rojelio Dehattus found a place to sit near the back. He watched in interest as the royal court, if the northern lords and ladies could actually be called a royal court, jostled for position. 

Their eagerness to see what spoils of war Lady Meera had sent from the frontline was evident in their boisterous voices. They were not eager sycophants, like the court of King’s Landing. Neither were they sophisticated like the royal court of Yi Ti. However, there was something refreshing in the simple and honest nature of the northerners. 

At the front of the hall, two maesters in dark grey robes stood to one side of the throne: Maester Wolkan and another Citadel scholar, Maester Aeron, who had joined the royal household two years ago. Ser Wendel Manderly, the captain of the queen’s guard, stood on the opposite side of the throne. The remaining member of the queen’s small council, the Northern War Chief Lady Meera Reed, was absent, presently laying siege to the Twins.

The small stature of the Tyroshi ambassador made it impossible for him to see over the tall northerners’ heads. He couldn’t tell who or what entered as the large oak doors at the far end of the hall complained loudly and scraped open. The throne room suddenly grew eerily quiet; the only sound was the rhythm of feet beating against the hard flagstone floors.

The queen gasped as she rose to feet, and her delicate hand flew to her lips as she stepped down from the dais. Whispers filled the hall, which suddenly stopped when the queen raised her hand, silencing the undertone of chatter.

Rojelio stood up to get a better view. His curiosity growing, he pushed his way to the front, eager to see what Lady Reed had sent that would cause such a commotion amongst the normally austere northern lords. 

When his eyes fell on the package, the ambassador almost lost his finely honed composure. He blinked several times in disbelief. The package from the Twins was not some secret weapon or stolen treasure, but three travel-worn people. The face of one of the newcomers, Rojelio had thought to never see again. He had heard that Tyrion Lannister survived his trial, but to actually see him, once again alive and walking into the throne room of Winterfell sent the ambassador’s head spinning.

It took all of Rojelio’s training not to shudder as Tyrion Lannister’s eyes drifted over him without a hint of recognition. It was only to be expected. 

“Brienne, welcome home,” the queen hummed as she stepped forward and grasped the taller woman’s hands.

Brienne smiled down at the auburn-haired queen. “It is good to be back, Your Grace.”

“You seek asylum in the North?” the queen said, coming straight to the point. 

“We do, Your Grace,” Brienne replied.

“Ser Brienne, you are, of course, always welcome. However,” turning toward Jaime and Tyrion, Sansa’s eyes looked predatory, like a wolf about to attack, “can you tell me why I should allow Lannisters into my Kingdom?”

“Your Grace–“ Tyrion began.

“Your Grace,” Maester Aeron said, cutting Tyrion off. “We shouldn’t antagonize the Southern Kingdoms further. Send these felons back to King’s Landing.”

“I think we have already succeeded in antagonizing the South,” Ser Wendel snorted, turning to look Jaime and Tyrion up and down. “Although I agree with Maester Aeron. We should send them back. Lannisters do not belong in the North.”

Several of the northern lords hissed in agreement, stamping their feet and banging on the tables. Queen Sansa raised her hand, once again silencing the court.

Sansa agreed, turning her clear blue eyes toward Ser Wendel. “I believe your house were once refugees from the Reach. Many of the older houses in the North might say you do not belong here.”

Several of the northern lords chuckled and nodded in agreement.

“That was centuries ago,” Manderly retorted and glared down at the court. His family had fled north hundreds of years ago, during the Andal invasion. Although he knew compared to the likes of the Starks or the Glovers, House Manderly were but recent immigrants. 

“Your Grace,” Tyrion stepped forward. “Please, may I speak?”

“Yes, please do, Lord Tyrion,” Sansa replied calmly as she returned to her weirwood throne.

Tyrion cleared his throat before he began his tale. So much had happened since they had found Jaime living in the Vale with no memory of his past, although he left out most of their adventures. The shadow creatures, Brother Cadfael and the ancient magical tome the old monk had given him weren’t something Tyrion wanted to discuss in front of the entire north.

Sansa nodded slightly and said, “The North remembers how, in the past, our families did their utmost to tear each other apart.” 

An uproar of angry voices and hisses erupted throughout the hall. The queen waited until the throne room quieted before continuing. 

“The North also remembers how you both came north to fight with the living at our most desperate hour. I will grant your request for asylum,” the queen continued.

The queen looked out at the assembled lords and ladies of the north, her cold blue eyes daring any of them to object. When no one spoke, Sansa nodded and turned to Maester Wolkan, requesting he find suitable chambers for her guests.

-o0o-

Rojelio Dehattus slid the bar closed on the door to his bedchamber, locking out any unwanted visitors. Sinking down onto his bed, he buried his face in his hands. A sound, almost a sob, escaped his lips before he began to tug at the skin behind his ears and under his chin, slowly removing the male facade as she peeled away the face of Ambassador Rojelio Dehattus.

The ambassador of Tyrosh looked at the standing mirror across her chamber; reflected in the glass was a small, dark-haired woman. Her own face, almost unrecognizable. For the last five years, she had worn a different face, the face of a courtesan in the royal courts of Yi Ti. 

Standing, she made her way to the looking glass, her dark eyes shining with unshed tears.  
Running her hand through her hair, she looked back at the door. If she left her chamber now, Tyrion would recognize her dark hair and brown eyes. She hadn’t bothered to changed her face or hide her accent when, so many years ago, she had infiltrated the Lannister Army camp. It wasn’t necessary, since she was just another foreign whore.

It had been disconcerting enough to see Sansa Stark again after so many years. The scared young girl had grown into a formidable queen. However, she could still look at the queen with detachment; she had cared for, even loved, the girl Sansa had once been, but she hadn’t been in love with her. Not like Tyrion.

She had never expected to see Tyrion Lannister again. She wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about that. The last time she had seen him, he had tried to kill her, although it is hard to kill a faceless man. 

Her training had taught her to slow her heart rate and breathing to appear dead. Lingering on the edge of death, she waited until Tyrion had left his father’s bedchamber, believing he had killed her. Only then did she make her escape from King’s Landing and Westeros, returning to the House of Black and White where she could recover and wait for her next assignment.

Her mind turned farther into the past, to her own family, gone for over ten years. They almost seemed unreal, like people she had made up in a game of lies. Looking into the mirror at her own face and into her own eyes, she whispered her story out loud for the first time in over ten years. 

_“My name is Shae Adairo. My father was a merchant. We were not rich, but neither were we poor. Father provided for us as best he could, even hiring a tutor. Shaen, my twin brother, and I learned our letters, our numbers, and how to speak the Common Tongue, Valyrian, Braavosi and even a little Dothraki. All the skills we would someday need to take over father’s trade and grow his small venture into a vast mercantile empire. Father was a dreamer, but Mother was more practical. She only wanted us to be happy. _

_We were travelling from Pentos to Norvos when the Dothraki attacked our caravan. Shaen pulled me into the thick brush along the side of the road and told me to stay hidden. Then he ran, shouting and waving his arms at the Dothraki and drawing the raiders away from my hiding place. I didn’t see my twin die, but I heard it, as I heard the Dothraki rape my mother and murder my father. _

_When I finally emerged from my hiding place, I found my family slaughtered. The caravan guards, the other merchants and their families were either dead or dragged away as slaves. _

_I was alone. I was no one._

_I don’t know how I made it to Norvos. I wandered through the thick grasses of the Essos plains for days, weeks, I am not really sure, before the city came into view.”_

-o0o-

Ten years ago, Arenyl had come to Norvos to assassinate one of the city’s prominent magistrates. She didn’t know or care why the magistrate was to receive the gift of death, or who had paid the blood price. It didn’t really matter. Disguised as one of the bearded priests, the religious leaders of Norvos, she had found the magistrate worshiping in the great fortress temple. The faceless man unceremoniously split the magistrate’s skull before arranging the murder scene to look like a loose stone had fallen from the ceiling. A dreadful accident indeed.

Unnoticed by the city guards, the assassin made her way down the Sinner’s Steps to the lower city. Having already changed back to her own face, she looked more of a poor waif than a deadly assassin. 

Arenyl found the young woman wandering aimlessly, her face blank, her eyes vacant as she roamed lost and alone through the streets of the lower city. The assassin, barely out of her teens herself, the same age as Shae, must have felt sorry for the young woman. Buying two large pieces of fried bread, Arenyl shared a meal with Shae and asked about her story. 

After hearing Shae retell the attack, Arenyl reached over and clasped her hands and asked, “What will you do now?” 

Shae shrugged and pushed the bread away from her. Without her family, she saw no reason to continue living. “I have no one, nothing left. I imagine I will slip away into the night and be forgotten.”

“You wish to become No One?” 

“Yes,” Shae answered, her voice devoid of any emotion.

Two years later, Shae had passed all her novice trails. She was especially good at the game of lies; Shea could become anyone. After using poison to assassinate a city guard who was blackmailing several prominent merchants, Shae became an apprentice assassin. Her apprenticeship passed quickly and somewhat happily, if one ignored the grisly murders she helped commit as she followed Arenyl around for another year. Arenyl became not only Shae’s mentor but her friend. 

When it came time for her first solo mission, it was Arenyl who suggested Shae for the assignment of infiltrating the Lannister camp and getting close to Tywin Lannister. 

“I don’t have to kill him?” Shae asked, confused.

Shaking her head, Arenyl replied, “Tywin Lannister will eventually return to King’s Landing and we need an eye inside the city and the Red Keep. The last Faceless Man sent there was captured, although he did eventually manage to escape.” Looking directly into Shae’s eyes, Arenyl said, “And I know you don’t really like killing.”

Shae shook her head in denial, “I serve the Many-Faced God and will gladly grant the gift of death when asked. I am–”

“It’s fine. We each have a role we must play.” Arenyl reached out and clasped Shae’s hands. “I know you will do all that is expected. But sometimes all the Many-Faced God expects is information.”

After infiltrating the Lannister camp, Shae found getting close to Lord Tywin nearly impossible. The man didn’t seem interested in whores, foreign or otherwise. She had considered changing her persona, maybe to a page or cup bearer. Then Bronn had barged into the tent she was sharing with an auburn-haired young knight who had once squired for Kevan Lannister. When she was brought before Tyrion, Shae knew she could use the younger son of Tywin Lannister to gain entry into the Red Keep. She hadn’t planned on falling in love.

At first, her love for Tyrion Lannister hadn’t interfered with her assignment, and in some ways the interim Hand of the King even made her tasks easier. Tyrion found her a position as a maidservant to Sansa Stark, allowing Shae to move around the castle unnoticed. 

She had used her time in the Red Keep to discover ancient hidden passageways throughout the castle and the city. Occasionally, Shae was contacted by the Faceless Men, called on to give the gift of death or assist another assassin move unnoticed through the castle. Shae never questioned her assignments; the Blood Price had been paid, that was all she needed to know. 

When Tyrion was accused of murdering the king, Shae had to choose between love for her golden lion and her duty to the Many-Faced God. There wasn’t really a choice. She chose her god. 

After her ‘death’ at her lover’s hands, Shae returned to Braavos, distraught at the memory of Tyrion choking her, taking her life. 

Arenyl had sat with Shae, combing her hair and offering what comfort she could. “This is why we do not get personally involved. Love is weakness. Love is the enemy of duty.” 

“I couldn’t help it,” Shae cried. “Tyrion was so smart and witty. He made me laugh for the first time since my family…Haven’t you ever been in love?”

“Only once,” Arenyl said and pulled Shae into an embrace.

Not long after, Shae was given a new assignment on the far side of the world. She spent the next five years spying on the royal courts of the Empire of Yi Ti and, occasionally, when the Blood Price was paid, she was asked to give some unsuspecting soul the gift of death.

Six months ago, she had finally returned to Braavos and the House of Black and White. She found Arenyl, her friend, her mentor and her lover had been murdered by a failed novice, Arya Stark. Although she had tried to hide her anger, Jaquen H’ghar had seen through Shae’s cold stoicism to the rage building inside. 

“Arya Stark’s life is not yours to take,” Jaqen H'ghar had warned Shae before she was sent to spy on Winterfell in the guise of the Tyroshi ambassador.

Shae said with cold indifference, “Yes, of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are Love


	17. The Queen of the North

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments on the last chapter, I hope everyone enjoys this next installment. Special thanks to Sea_Spirit for proofing this work.
> 
> The Witch of the Vale and the Raven King are works of fan-fiction based on the HBO TV show "Game of Thrones," and the books by George R.R. Martin.

Chapter Seventeen  
The Queen of the North

The private banquet hall of the queen howled with a kaleidoscope of colors. The riot of rich hues and subtle tones offered a sharp contrast to the rest of the dour grey north. Beautiful tapestries in brilliant reds and vivid greens, depicting forest glades and majestic mountains, concealed the dull grey stone of the castle walls. 

The furniture consisted of ornamented high-backed chairs and couches, their cream-colored plush cushions embroidered with leaves and vines in delicate shades of forest green and soft browns. In the center of the small hall, a small feast was already set out for the queen’s dinner guests.

The queen stood next to the hearth, which burned fervently, warming the chamber and casting a rich golden glow onto the young queen’s skin. Although the harshest winter in recorded history had ended over two years ago, Winterfell was still in the North. While the days were warm, spring in the North meant freezing cold nights. 

“Your Grace, I wish to thank you for the invitation.” Tyrion bowed as one of her royal guards escorted him into the chamber, Brienne and Jaime following closely behind.

“It is always a pleasure to dine with you, Lord Tyrion,” Sansa replied as she turned from the fire and smiled at Tyrion. before discharging her guard. “Thank you, Bryce. That shall be all.” 

“Your Grace?” Bryce asked, casting a suspicious glance in Jaime’s direction.

“No harm shall become me, not while Ser Brienne is present.” Sansa waved her hand in dismissal of the guard’s concerns and said sternly, “Now, please leave us.” 

“I will be right outside the door,” Bryce said, turning to give Jaime warning look before bowing as he backed out of the chamber.

“Join me.” Sansa motioned toward the table, and after everyone was seated, the young queen said abruptly, “And now, maybe we can have a real conversation about what you didn’t want to divulge in front of the whole court.”

“Your Grace?” Tyrion asked, raising his brows in a show of mock innocence as he took a seat next to Sansa. Jaime and Brienne sat down across from Tyrion and the queen. 

“Do not patronize me, Lord Tyrion,” Sansa hissed. “I am not some dull-witted child.”

“I can see that,” Tyrion replied, dipping his head at the young queen, “but tell me, Your Grace. What do you know of your brother’s abilities?”

Sansa responded casually, “Bran has visions.” 

“That is what we all believed, isn’t it? It is what the king wanted us to believe,” Tyrion said, picking up a glass of wine and studying the dark maroon liquid, “but he is so much more powerful.”

“Please explain,” the queen said as she reached for her own glass.

Tyrion took a drink and stared straight into Sansa’s eyes for a long moment; finally, he said clearly, “Daenerys wasn’t mad.”

Sansa raised a delicate brow, but nonetheless nodded for Tyrion to continue. 

And he did, starting by telling the queen about the shadow creatures, how both Jaime and Daenerys had been pushed into the dark abyss of madness by the Raven King’s shadowy whispers.

Sansa felt a death chill run down her spine as Tyrion continued, explaining how he had been taken captive by the Witch of the Vale, the reanimated corpse of Lysa Arryn. Sansa could only stare at her former husband in stunned silence, wrapping her arms across her shoulders to hide the tremble as the tale unfolded. _After everything, everyone who died during the Long Night, Bran had raised another White Walker. Why, how could he even do that?_

“What do you expect the North to do?” the queen asked when Tyrion had finished his tale.

“More than what you have been doing,” Jaime growled. His voice was clipped and filled with a dark rage. “You hide behind your…Hedge, while that tyrant rules the south, sending that witch after my brother.”

“Bran is still my brother.” Sansa’s eyes fell on Jaime in cold loathing. “He was never the same after you pushed him from that tower.” 

“As Cersei was my sister,” Jaime responded, returning Sansa’s stare. 

“Jaime, quiet,” Brienne hissed, reaching over to take his hand and turning back to the queen. “Your Grace, what Ser Jaime did was despicable, but at the time his only thought was to protect his family, his sister and their children, from King Robert’s wrath. Would you have done any less to protect your family?”

“Grievous wrongs have been done…on both sides,” Tyrion added to the discussion. “Let us three finally move past our family’s distasteful history.”

Sansa stared at Brienne and Tyrion for a long moment before finally turning to Jaime. “Although I find your history with your sister sickening, I do understand wanting to protect your family. As well, Brienne loves and trusts you, and I trust her. If she is willing to put your past aside, then so am I.” Turning to Tyrion, the queen replied, “And you are right, Lord Tyrion. We need to move past our families’ history.” 

“Good,” Tyrion said, tapping his spoon on his plate as he looked up at the queen. “Now, about this Hedge you have built. Why have you chosen to isolate the North?” 

“I have suspected for some time that there was a darkness growing in Bran. I believe this power he has, it has corrupted his soul.” The queen drew out the words slowly. 

“What? You suspected,” Jaime growled and leaned forward, his ire rising once more, “and you still let Brienne go alone into that pit of snakes?”

“Jaime!” Brienne hissed, grabbing his arm so he wouldn’t do something rash and stupid.

“Brienne is more than capable of defending herself,” Sansa retorted with a dignified huff. “I was more concerned about–“ Sansa’s voice trailed off as her eyes fell on Tyrion.

Jaime blinked several times, looking from the queen to his brother. The Queen of the North, Jaime suddenly realized, had given up her sworn sword, one of the few people she trusted unconditionally, so his brother would have a protector in King’s Landing. 

“Your Grace,” Jaime shuddered, “I…thank you.”

Sansa sipped her wine, and then said with a dry smile, “Why, Ser Jaime, I do believe those are the most humble words ever to come out of your mouth. There may be hope for you yet.”

As he squinted at the young queen, Jaime’s lips turned up in a wicked smirk; there were so many quips and biting remarks he could use to respond to the queen’s remark. He bit his tongue. Tyrion was right; they needed to finally move past their families’ history. 

If Sansa noticed Jaime’s smirk, she didn’t respond. Turning her attention back to Tyrion, the queen said, “I believe there is yet more you haven’t told me.” 

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Tyrion said and pulled out the ancient magic tome from under his tunic, explaining how the old monk had given him the book and amulets to protect them from the king’s shadowy whispers.

“This monk, I assume, wishes to remain anonymous?” Sansa asked, picking up the archaic tome and flipping through the fragile yellow pages.

“He does, Your Grace.” 

“Then I will not pry,” Sansa hummed, and then she added, “other than to ask if he and this other knight, Ser Hugh, are safe.”

“Quite safe.” Tyrion smiled up at the young queen. 

“That is good news, at least,” the queen said, turning her eyes back to the ancient book. “Would you consider working with Maester Aeron? I brought him into my household and small council for the sole reason of the Valyrian link on his chain. Maybe with his help, you can create more of these amulets.”

“Of course,” Tyrion responded.

“Queen Sansa,” Jaime said, drawing her attention away from his brother. “There is still the matter of my sons.”

“Your sons?” Sansa asked, her right eye twitching at the memory of Jaime’s firstborn son.

“When Jaime lost his memory, he lived with a woman and her children, believing the boys were his own,” Tyrion explained, telling Sansa of the events that led up to their defeat of the Witch of the Vale. “We were separated from young Pod and the boys after the Raven King’s last psychic attack.”

“And they are still south of the Hedge,” Sansa exclaimed, her face growing pale with genuine concern, “without the protection of these amulets. I fear it is only a matter of time before they are captured.”

“I know the king is your brother,” Jaime growled, his left hand clenching into a tight fist, “but if he has harmed my sons–”

“Before you do anything rash,” the queen said, raising her hand and stopping Jaime from his rant, “allow me to send a raven to my brother, requesting Ser Podrick and your sons’ immediate release and their return to the North.” 

Jaime shook his head and growled, “You expect me to wait around here while you negotiate with that monster?” 

“I expect you not to do anything foolish,” the queen said, looking Jaime in the eye. He looked away, refusing to meet her gaze.

“It is the most sensible move,” Tyrion added in agreement.

“Fine,” Jaime finally snarled, crossing his arms in front of this chest.

The queen glanced at Brienne, the lady knight rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. If the situation wasn’t so dire, Sansa might have laughed. Brienne would have her hands full keeping Jaime calm and preventing him from running south and possibly making the entire situation worse.

-o0o-

The last of the sun’s rays blazed a cherry pink, hovering above the grey walls of Winterfell. The shadow of a raven soared from the maester’s tower, coasting around the castle before turning south.

“It’s away…finally,” Jaime said as he stared out the window, watching the large black bird begin its journey to King’s Landing.

“So now, can we can finally relax and enjoy the rest of the evening?” Tyrion replied, raising a glass of wine toward his brother.

After their meal, Jaime hadn’t stopped grumbling until the Queen of the North finally relented and sent for Maester Wolkan. While Jaime paced, Sansa, Tyrion and the old maester drafted a message to the Raven King. 

Although Sansa and Tyrion generally ignored Jaime’s suggestions, which mostly involved threats of raining death and destruction down on the Red Keep if his sons were not returned. 

Brienne joined Jaime at the window, resting her hand on his shoulder, and said, “It will take at least two days for the raven to just reach King’s Landing.” 

Jaime grunted, refusing to look away from the window, his eyes searching the dark clouds for the raven.

“Waiting is one of the hardest things about being alive,” Brienne said, turning Jaime’s face so he looked at her. “But, if you spend your life waiting, you will miss out on the present.”

Nodding, Jaime looked up into Brienne’s azure eyes. “You know the king better than I. How will he respond?”

“I thought I knew the king, but I really didn’t,” Brienne exhaled sharply. “But I know Grandmaester Tarly. He is a good man, and the messages will go through him. He also just happens to be the only person to whom the king listens.”

“You are right, of course,” Jaime said, running his knuckles down her cheek. He tucked a loose strand of pale blond hair behind her ears before leaning forward so their temples met. 

Sansa, sitting next to the hearth with Tyrion, leaned over and tapped his hand, whispering, “Your brother appears to be quite smitten.” 

“When we Lannister men fall, we tend to fall hard,” Tyrion replied with a chuckle.

“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” the queen said sarcastically.

Tyrion eyed the queen and said, “So, why didn’t our marriage work?” 

“For the very simple reason that your heart has always belonged to another,” Sansa replied quickly.

“I did love Daenerys. I believed in her. She was my queen, but nothing more.”

Sansa looked to the ceiling and shook her head; men were rather dense. “We shall talk about your Dragon Queen, but it is not she of whom I speak. There was always another, before we were even wed.”

“Sansa, I–” Tyrion’s mouth dropped open. He was rarely at a loss for words. Taking a long drink of his wine, he opened and closed his mouth several times to speak before finally stuttering, “I never betrayed our marriage vows.”

“I know,” Sansa replied, patting his hand. “I may have been a child, but do you think I couldn’t see the way you looked at her? How Shae looked back at you, but only when she believed I wasn’t looking?”

“She betrayed me.”

“And do you hate her because of that betrayal?”

“I did for a long time,” Tyrion replied, twirling the wine in his glass and shaking his head. “But now, I only feel regret–” In his mind, Tyrion could almost see Shae, standing before him in a loose pink frock and slippers. _What would I say to her, if she were really here? Forgive me? Would that even be enough?_

“You only have to forgive yourself once,” Sansa said with a sad smile. “With regret, you have to do it all day, every day, for the rest of your life.”

“How have you grown so wise?” Tyrion said in awe.

“We have all done things that we regret,” Sansa said with a shudder. “I used to think that Winterfell was the end of the world. I couldn’t wait to escape the North and travel to King’s landing and marry Joffrey and have his babies. There was so much I didn’t know about how the world really works, how evil thrives on the suffering of innocents. I could spend my days mired in regret for the deaths my actions have caused. We can’t let the past define us. We must move past them.”

“Do you think you will ever move on and remarry?” Tyrion asked curiously.

“And have some man claim my throne?” Sansa actually managed to make a snort sound delicate. “I think not.”

“Daenerys felt much the same way,” Tyrion chuckled. “She resisted marrying. She preferred lovers.”

Sansa laughed, startling Tyrion, then suddenly became serious once more. “I should have befriended her when I had the chance. It sounds like we had much in common.”

“You actually do...did, and I know in the end Daenerys did terrible things, after she was consumed by her demons and the shadow creature’s vile whispers,” Tyrion said regretfully. “But, in the beginning, she was a just and kind ruler. She had a good heart and cared about the smallfolk. She only wanted to help people.” 

“She tried to talk to me once. Daenerys came to me in this very room and tried to mend our differences, but I wouldn’t listen.” Sansa sighed. “I wonder, if only I had listened to her, if the events in King’s Landing could have been prevented.”

Shaking his head, Tyrion replied, “You said yourself, we can’t second guess ourselves,” 

“It wasn’t until the Hedge was complete that my opinion of Daenerys Targaryen began to change,” Sansa admitted with a shrug. “Until now, I had thought it was the passage of time that had tempered my hatred. Now I wonder if Bran had something to do with my, I admit, irrational animosity toward your queen."

“If you were completely susceptible to his power, you wouldn’t have built the Hedge. However, the Holy Brother who gave us these amulets said that some people, like you and me perhaps, are more resistant to his influence,” Tyrion said logically. “For us, your brother could only confuse and misdirect. He may have caused you to mistrust Daenerys, and I guess in my case, caused me to make stupid mistakes.”

Sansa chuckled into her glass, “Well, that explains a lot.” 

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” Tyrion grumbled into his wine.

Sansa stuck her lip out and chuckled. “Are people reminding you of your many, many stupid mistakes?”

“Constantly, yes,” Tyrion huffed. 

“Well, I trust you have recovered you infamous intelligence,” Sansa said, “and I actually have need of that famed wit and charm.”

“I am at your service.” Tyrion raised his glass toward the young queen.

“The Ambassador from Tyrosh is…well, let us just say, he gets on my nerves.”

“You wish me to act as your intermediary?”

Reaching over, Sansa clenched his hand. “Yes, please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are Love <3


	18. What Bronn Knows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of the Raven King, I do plan on writing (season 3) hopefully sooner rather than later. I am just waiting for inspiration.
> 
> As always thanks to Sea_Spirit for proofing this chapter.
> 
> The Witch of the Vale and the Raven King are works of fan-fiction based on the HBO TV show "Game of Thrones," and the books by George R.R. Martin.

Chapter Eighteen  
What Bronn Knows

Bronn knew two things. The first being his plan was falling into place. His friends in the underworld and the City Watch hadn’t disappointed. Turning the small oval Lyseni coin over in his hand, he felt the three marks scratched on the back of the gold coin. 

Bronn had smiled like a cat with a ball of twine when, a few moments ago, one of his friends in the Gold Cloaks had tossed him the coin before he left the training yard. 

The coin was a message from the Shayala's Dance, a galley in a fleet of pirate ships owned by the Pirate Prince of the Narrow Sea, Salladhor Saan. The ship had been spotted skulking along the northern coast of Blackwater Bay. The captain of the Shayala’s Dance, a Lyseni pirate named Khorane Sathmantes, owed Bronn more than a few favors. Bronn intended to call in those favors.

While he had been a member of the small council, Bronn had used his influence to insure the Shayala’s Dance could continue its plundering on the open waters north of King’s Landing. The scratched coin was Khorane’s way of stating he intended to honor his debt. 

The second thing Bronn knew was Ser Podrick Payne, although a fine swordsman, couldn’t shoot a bow to save his life. Out of the ten shots Podrick had already made, four had missed the target completely; the other six were nowhere near the center. 

Ser Podrick was apparently trying to teach Arik how to shoot. Bronn was pretty sure young Pod was instead showing the boy how not to shoot a bow. The boy, for his part, just stood there looking at Ser Podrick with a bemused smirk on his face. 

Bronn’s friends in the City Watch and their young charges had already left, leaving him alone with nothing to do except watch Podrick fail at archery.

Finally, Bronn had enough and marched out into the field, scoffing cruelly, “Did your precious she-knight not teach you to shoot? Or are you just a talentless hack?” 

“I…she–“ Podrick started to mutter in response.

“Give me that,” Bronn said gruffly, snatching the bow from Pod’s hands.

“I don’t need to learn to shoot a bow,” Arik huffed stubbornly before saying again, for the hundredth time, “and I don’t want to be–”

“Farm boy, I’ve had enough of your back talk. Now you watch me,” Bronn grumbled as he took aim at the target several yards away. The arrow shot straight through the air hitting the target only slightly to the right of center. 

Shoving the bow at Arik, Bronn growled, “Now you.”

Sighing exaggeratedly and rolling his eyes, Arik took the bow. After pulling back on the string, the lad winced and lowered the bow.

“Arm still buggin’ you?” Bronn asked, not in concern or for any altruistic reason. It was just a question.

“A little.”

Bronn shrugged, “Best way to deal with pain, farm boy, is work through it. Now, let me see your stance.”

After Arik raised the bow again, Bronn kicked at the lad’s feet and rotated his shoulders until Arik was in a position Bronn deemed acceptable.

Meanwhile, Ser Garrat had called to Podrick from across the yard. The older man was a landless knight of questionable lineage and some limited skill who trained the future men of the City Watch with shield and defensive training with spear and sword. 

After setting aside his animosity, Ser Podrick had actually begun to like the older knight. Ser Garrat was patient yet persistent with his young charges. However, Garrat’s training was often limited to defensive tactics, training the future Gold Cloaks to lock their shields together and use weapons defensively to keep rioters at bay. 

After a few weeks of eyeing each other suspiciously, the two knights had finally decided to work together, with Podrick training Arik and several of the more promising recruits with swords. Ser Garrat took his turn working with the youths on shield-work, training Arik to work alongside the other youths to form a shield wall. 

Meanwhile, Bronn mostly chatted with the Gold Cloaks who had come to watch and laugh at the clumsy young recruits. 

Ser Garrat no doubt wanted to talk to Ser Podrick about some promising young recruit. Podrick excused himself and hurried to the other side of the yard where Ser Garrat waited, leaving Bronn and Arik alone in the center of the field.

While Bronn was distracted by Podrick’s retreat, Arik had shifted back to his original stance. The boy had the bow drawn taut, with an arrow nocked and ready. 

Bronn was about to chastise the boy when he noticed the expression on Arik’s face. He knew that look; he had seen it enough on the battlefield. On occasion, Bronn had even worn that particular expression. The firm set of his jaw, the intense glint in his eyes: the boy wanted someone dead. Following Arik’s line of sight, Bronn looked up to see the king watching from a balcony above the yard.

“Don’t do it, farm boy,” Bronn hissed under his breath. “Even if you somehow manage not to miss, you’d still be dead. I’d be dead. Pod, my wife and kids, they’d all be dead. Now I want you to ask yourself, is it worth it?”

Arik’s jaw twitched. Closing his eyes, he shifted his stance, changing his position slightly as he let the arrow fly. The shaft lodged deeply into the target, slightly to the left of the arrow Bronn had previously shot.

Throwing the bow to the ground, Arik turned to glare up at Bronn. “Yes, I am a farm boy and how do you think farm boys learn to hunt? I’ve used a bow since I was old enough to pick one up.”

With that, Arik turned and started to walk away. Stopping suddenly, he said without turning, “I didn’t stay my hand because of you. I stopped because of Ser Podrick and Lady Lollys and the children. I really don’t care if you die.” The lad stood silently for a moment, his shoulders shaking with rage. Finally turning to look at Bronn, Arik growled deep and dark, “And I don’t care if I die. I promise you, someday I will kill the king and then I will kill you.”

Bronn’s brow rose at the boy’s murderous and yet subdued rage. Glancing behind him, he half expected the knights of the Kingsguard to already be on their way. Instead of their impending death, Bronn saw the king sitting obliviously on the balcony talking to Grandmaester Tarly. The two Kingsguards hadn’t even drawn their weapons; they remained standing idly behind the king, looking bored. 

The Three-Eyed Raven surprisingly had no idea how close he had just come to death. Bursting into a hearty laugh, Bronn grinned widely and shook his head. 

Thinking Bronn was laughing at him, Arik glared at the former Lord of Highgarden before stomping away. When he met Ser Podrick halfway across the list, the young knight wrapped a protective arm around Arik’s shoulders as he cast an annoyed glare back at Bronn.

-o0o-

Arik liked Lady Lollys, mostly because she was kind and doted over him. In some ways, the former Lady of Highgarden reminded him of his mother, although Pia had never been so simple-minded. He also liked the children; Tyrion had taken to following Arik around the suite of rooms the prisoners shared. The baby, little Jaime, was cute; she had her mother’s soft blond hair and cheerful laugh. The only member of the Blackwater family Arik didn’t like was Bronn.

Their apartments on the fourth floor in the Maidenvault were sparse, but unlike the black cells, they were at least dry and well lit. Bronn, Lady Lollys and their two younger children shared one of bedchambers, while Arik and Podrick shared the other. 

On this particular night, everyone seemed unusually tired. Lady Lollys, having yawned through most of their evening meal, announced she was turning in early, holding her hand to her mouth as she yawned again and shuffled her sleepy children into their bedchamber. 

Ser Podrick and Arik sat in front of the hearth for a while, pouring over a large book, studying the various noble houses in the realm. After the third time the young knight had nearly fallen asleep, Podrick excused himself, yawning and rubbing his eyes as he disappeared into the bedchamber he shared with Arik. 

“Farm boy, best you get to bed as well,” Bronn suggested, motioning toward Arik and Podrick’s bedchamber. “We got ourselves a big day tomorrow.”

Arik didn’t need to be told twice; he rolled his eyes only because he could, stifling a large yawn before heading to his bedchamber. He didn’t really want to stay up with only Bronn to talk to anyway.

Waking suddenly, Arik realized someone else was in his room. It took another moment before he realized he wasn’t in fact in his room, mostly because his bedchamber didn’t normally roll back and forth. 

Looking around the dim chamber, Arik grew afraid they had been returned to the black cells. Although the air didn’t sink of piss, shit and death; instead, it smelled of fish and salt.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Arik made out the shape of barrels tied together with rope and nets and the prone body of Ser Podrick Payne, sleeping peacefully on old straw mattresses pushed into the corner. On the other side of the dark chamber, resting on a wood-framed bed, Lady Lollys and the children were also asleep. 

Arik listened for any familiar sound that might give him a clue to his location, but the only sound he heard was a loud creaking, like wood scraping against wood, and the shouting of men overhead. 

Rising to his feet, he felt the world sway violently. Arik stumbled and had to grab onto one of the nets so he wouldn’t fall to the floor. Squinting into the darkness, he saw a door and, to his surprise, when he tried to pull on the handle, it was unlocked. Climbing the wooden steps on the other side of the door, Arik emerged squinting into blinding sunlight. 

For a boy who had spent most of his life in the shadow of the Mountains of the Moon, the view before him was like another world. Flat and blue as far as his eyes could see, he automatically searched for mountains on the horizon; all Arik saw were white billowy clouds touching the endless blue horizon. 

Arik wasn’t stupid. He realized he was on a ship, sailing on an unknown sea. Sailors in brightly colored regalia crawled along the riggings, shouting to each other in some foreign language as the ship swayed slightly and skimmed over the waves. Arik knew he was on a ship, but he couldn’t remember how he had gotten there.

“Finally awake, farm boy?” Bronn’s gruff voice carried above the creaking rigging and shouting sailors.

“Where are we?” Arik asked, looking around the ship. “How did we get here? How long have I been asleep?”

A tall man with silver blond hair and light blue eyes tinged with specks of lavender stood next to Bronn, and he scoffed, “Full of questions, isn’t he?”

“Aye, it’s annoying,” Bronn grumbled and turned back to look across the never-ending horizon.

“You, my young lord, are on the Shayala’s Dance in the middle of the Narrow Sea, on your way to Lys,” the man said, bending slightly in a mock bow. “And I am Captain Khorane Sathmantes, pirate and adventurer extraordinaire.”

“We escaped,” Arik said, turning to Bronn. “You had this planned all along. Why didn’t you tell me or Ser Podrick? We could have helped.”

Bronn turned to look down at the boy. “Because the king would have found out and sent his shadow creature to stop us. You saw what he did to your papa and Podrick. Would you wish that on Lollys or my kids?” 

“What’s stopping him from doing that now?” Arik asked. 

“Your king’s shadow creature can’t travel over the open sea,” Khorane replied, waving his hands over the vast expanse of water. “That is why we had to keep you unconscious until we were far enough from shore.”

“So, that’s it. We’re going to Lys?” Arik asked annoyingly. “To do what? Become sellswords?”

“Naw, I’m done with that life,” Bronn said smugly, crossing his arms and turning to look out to sea. “I got me some coin hidden away in the Iron Bank and in various other establishments. We will live comfortably enough. It won’t be Highgarden, but we won’t be selling our swords or begging in the streets.” Bronn smiled widely and stretched his arms out to the sea. “Welcome to your new life as a Lyseni merchant prince.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are love.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always welcome.


End file.
